The Poetics of Pain


I SUPPOSE

I know not your name
For you arrive like a rush of blood
Spilling meaning upon paper.
Dry is the ink
Defining my mind’s imprint upon corporeality.
Dead is my natural pose
Slumped
Above a laptop.

I know not your purpose
You, however, presume to know my own
Shouting words within my hollow whole
And threatening my soul’s duality.
Receptive to all sententious prose
-A figure of speech
No parenthesis.

MY RESPONSE TO HEAD SHRINKERS

You can silence me with pills
Deafen me with therapy
But, as long as I can think
I shall always be myself

A poet reborn or…just pretending?


I do not purport to be a great poet, or even a good one. I aim to capture the unpredictable ebb and flow of thought as it intersects with text on my laptop screen. For writing not only reflects the consciousness of the writer, but her soul. Thus, when someone reads my poetry, they access part of me that is forbidden to the eye.

In my new poetry collection, I have stripped myself bare. Like discarded garments, my outer layers reveal the surface of my intent. Beneath, I am as vulnerable as a child. I shiver in the presence of pedagogues, those who truly understand the poetic form and fear that my amateurism will be exposed.

After 20 years of writing poetry, I am still a virgin; not penetrated by the sharp pen of scholastic formalism,
I am merely myself.

Truth is pretence.

A Life Reborn by Louise M. Hart is available from amazon, barnes and noble and most respected retailers.

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