Wordsmiths' Soiree

You hear me --

you don't? 

Ah, well,

so it rains. 

Words tasted,

words wasted --

no efforts,

no gains. 

We whisper, we shout,

we rhyme, we "prose" --

nuances layered

beyond what shows. 

So wrap your heart warm,

or wrap your heart cool

in words for the wise,

jests for the fool. 

Take your pick, or leave it,

it's all up to you --

evocative verse,

or straight dialogue for two. 

We write, we rest,

words wax, words wane --

shadowy haunt

or bright windowpane. 

You bring self to bear

on the false and the true: 

How will the words fare

when their beholder is you?

Letter to My Readers - April 24, 2012 (reprinted from above)

Tuesday, April 24th, 2012 

Hello, Readers,

Happy Spring -- and a gorgeous one it's turning out to be!

As I reflect upon my own poems and essays, I reflect also upon those of others.  On behalf of all of us whose blogs are not time-bound daily "updates" but rather discrete artistic endeavors of writing or other forms of art, I wish to highlight the point that our "archived" pieces, therefore, are just as timely today as they were on the day they were posted.  Because each piece is meant to stand alone (unless, of course, it's written in parts, or chapters), it doesn't "age" the way a time-bound blog update would age.  Poetry, essays, creative writing, and the visual arts don't age at all.  The word "archive," in this case, does not imply "out of date" or "now potentially irrelevant" as it might in a different type of blog.

So I ask you, please, to try and look into the archived months on this blog at some point in your browsing.  An author's earlier works can help flesh out one's interpretation of his later works.  

And, yes, following my own advice, I do always attempt to "look back" at my fellow writers' earlier, or earliest, pieces.  I have found this to be a rich source of understanding and ongoing significance.

Speaking of significance, for those of you who are Armenian and for all others who appreciate the momentum of history, I wish to commemorate this memorial day of earthshaking significance:  Armenian Genocide Memorial Day.

In his soul-rattling book, Black Dog of Fate, author Peter Balakian captures the horrific reality of the Armenian Genocide -- understood through the eyes of his beloved grandmother -- with a traumatically jarring poem toward the middle of the book.  The whole work really must be read.
     

In honor of this day, I enclose here a link to one of my favorite musical works (please click on title below):

"Amen Hayr Sourp" - "Amen Holy Father" - by Levon Minassian and Armand Amar (Songs from a World Apart)

May the blood, sacrifice, martyrdom, and tears of the Armenian people and their descendants bear renewed life and meaning for those in the homeland and in the diaspora.

God bless you all.

Sincerely,

~ Turquoise

Mentor

There was a mentor,

influence felt, not heard,

who listened to the lilt of the word,

just receiving. 

No degrees had he,

but a knowing of a kind

that can take words

or leave them,

burn through them

or seize them,

with reckless precision

of mind. 

Though he go a-seeking

new verse to till,

"mentor" he will remain

still.

Poem

Relevance

gone mad with art,

bemusing in form,

light for its weight,

tune with no music,

sound waiting to be made

whether uttered

or not.

Growing Pains

The hardest thing after writing, it seems,

is to let a poem hang,

just hang there on the line . . .

waiting  . . . waiting hard to be read . . .

and sometimes it hurts,

hurts far too much,

to see it hanging there;

and I must seize back my poems --

mine!  all mine!  please don't hurt them! --

but, then, how does one hurt a poem?

Ah,

one fails to read it!

So, although it hurts,

I put the poems back . . .

back . . . back into view,

because I see

(and I've seen this before but then I've forgotten)

that poems live, breathe, and sing

to be read!

And I understand now that my poems,

like children whom we cannot spare all suffering

and struggle in life,

are actually willing

to wait.

Quickened

Poetry uses inanimate words

to frame reality.

Reality framed by acts of love

breathes living poetry.

En Route

And what do they know

of who you are?

Words are like kites

rustling mutely, afar.

But let it be, let it be --

let the words have their day.

Let some thoughts touch ground

before blowing away.