Poetry leaves me cold.
It doesn’t touch my soul.
It bores me beyond my interest.
I read and go cold trying to milk meaning from the crafted text.
And I think of my father who loved TS Eliot, and ee cummings and would delight in reading and sometimes recording his favourite lines….. so his ordained voice made the sounds break away and fly from the stuffy pages,
and resonate as observations and truth lit his world with ideas and themes and bold words that made him feel that he had known and connected with the writer and his comrades who shared a reaction to the artefacts …. That now just sit on a page or screen and leaves me cold and bored.
I wonder what ever happened to the sparks and insights he breathed life into. Did they die with him, or do they still resonate in the holy spaces where he first found them…..
Touching other unsuspecting inhabitants of his discoveries.
Or are the words all cold.
Lost discoveries, embers that no longer smoke but lie in my memory.
Times and moments of discovery again covered up to be unearthed and shared by others who cannot read the poems as he did, and now convey sadness and absence of the voice and mind that made them dance and sing.
Or is the fire out. Did they go out with him?
Poetry leaves me cold.
