In the quiet moments, a time when the worldly noise of hustle and bustle fade into the night, a time of silent reflection, I gently prodded myself to capture the calm serenity that surrounded me with its melodic harmony. Armed with pen in hand and note book on my lap, the words seemed to etch themselves on to the blank face of the paper before me. So engrossed was I, that time, which is normally so pressing, as if by magic disappeared. My hand transcribed my thoughts in seemingly random patterns of words with no particular structure. It was late at night, gentle music playing in the background. Occasionally a distant bark of a dog could be heard. A car would drive by now and then. All was quiet, the day coming to a sleepy end.

I paused my entry into my note book to read and contemplate what I wrote. It became obvious to me that even though it seemed to be just random words describing my current thoughts, I wrote a poem. It is strange how the order of these random thoughts of my mind, formed a very structured pattern. I began to think about why I needed to write. What feelings or emotions moved me to put pen to paper. It was almost as if I was trying to describe to myself the meaningless and the meaningful to create some sort of order for my understanding. I glanced down again to the words on the paper and read…

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Making headway
On the path of organized chaos
Scattered thoughts fall into solid pattern
The building blocks of core existence
The very essence of life
Not bound by limitation
Yet fits together like a jigsaw puzzle
Dancing in harmony, in conflict
In giving, in receiving
Diametrically opposed
Different shapes that meld
To create a wholeness
Ripe for the inquisitive wisdom
A totality so vast
The mind cannot comprehend
The heart knows the truth of all that is
The quiet calm within
Rests in vibrating energy
Forever moving in the labyrinth
Of a self-created, preconceived future

 

Written by Zsuzsa Owen, 1998
Published and copyright by The Poetry Guild

I re-read my poem several times. Each time I would look at a totally different perspective as its words related to my understanding of my world. Every time I read my poem and paying attention to the current meaning only to change that meaning to some other meaning seconds later, gently nudged my mind into wondering where poetry comes from and how might others view the same poem. As if by magic, my mind came up with answers.

Poetry comes from every second of existence, from those who are living to those who have lived before us. It comes from the pebbles on a beach to a waterfall in the woods. It comes from the sound of a drill cutting wood to smell of foods cooking in the kitchen. It comes from the chirping of a bird to a sigh of a child. It comes from lovers staring into each others eyes to feeling skin on skin. It comes from wheat fields flattened in the wind to hurricanes along an angry coast. It comes from bees pollinating flowers to the blood cursing through or veins. Poetry is in every movement of all and every thought we dare to imagine.

The author of a poem may be writing about a personal experience that he or she saw quite unrelated to anything or connected to anyone outside of themselves, yet for the reader the poem may become an expression of generalities or relate to a private experience of their own. A poem may mean different things to different readers and may be totally different in its meaning from what the author was communicating. A poem is limited only by the individual’s interpretation. The author and the reader may have differing views, yet all views are valid. As T.S Elliot said regarding poetry, "The different interpretations may all be partial formulations of one thing; the ambiguities may be due to the fact that the poem means more, not less, than ordinary speech can communicate."

So, what do I as a poet mean by the words written in a notebook one quiet night, recording the idle musings of my mind?

My mind is busy, chaotic as it were. The trials and tribulations of a single mother magnified by the realities of life, job, child, business, aging parents, dinners to be made, groceries to be picked up, car to be repaired, friends to support, house cleaning to be done, music listened to, movies to see, bills to be paid… the list is endless. Knowing where every piece of paper is to clothes for the laundry on the floor. Heaven help someone who moves any items big or small. I know where everything is. There is some form of order that only I can decipher. Hence the words of the first three lines of my poem;

Making headway
On the path of organized chaos
Scattered thoughts fall into solid pattern

The daily events of my life, the moment to moment shifts of change make up the seemingly random events surrounding my very existence, layered by only a new event, thought, feeling or action, having no apparent end. It is limited only by my own harness of any situation, all things that I speak about and how I see my world. This reality is indicated by the next three lines of the poem.

The building blocks of core existence
The very essence of life
Not bound by limitation

Nothing is stagnant in life. Even rocks are eroded over time. Living things pass away or birth themselves. The vignettes of my life, like snapshots creep into my thoughts individually, only to be replaced by another thought, feeling or event. Some memories are happy, while others raise some discomfort. At times I have to search out how to piece together or connect these seemingly random happenings. The following three lines of the poem speak to that thought.

Yet fits together like a jigsaw puzzle
Dancing in harmony, in conflict
In giving, in receiving

Without one experience, there is no other. All events seem to tie in together whether in balance or opposition. Peace and war, joy and contentment, hunger and strife, laughing or crying, life and death, poverty or abundance, rain or sunshine are all part of every living thing. I would not know the feeling or experience of one without the other. Even though they may be different, what is for sure is that each idea, feeling, thought and experience exists and I interpret its being differently through my own rose colored glasses or sometimes unanswered quest. The next four lines of the poem present this idea very succinctly.

Diametrically opposed
Different shapes that meld
To create a wholeness
Ripe for the inquisitive wisdom

Our world and beyond is huge. Millions of people, animals, insects, birds and fish inhabit our planet. The endless inspiration that each living thing brings to my table with its own glory and knowledge can not be measured or quantified. It can only be shared or understood. The answers to all my questions lie not outside of me but in the infinite wisdom deep within my souls. The magnitude can be overwhelming, yet when I pay attention I can decipher quite easily what is true for me, as indicated by the next three lines of the poem.

A totality so vast
The mind cannot comprehend
The heart knows the truth of all that is

By letting go of control, giving over to a form of surrender, creating a time of quiet peace, if only for a short time, re-energizing my depleted energy from the whirlwind of the day, gives me the freedom to dream. The freedom to contemplate how and what I want to see, be and do. It gives me the impetus to assess and accept that sometimes I may run into brick walls, other times I may run into wide open spaces. It re-iterates that I am the master of my fate and that I am always in control of what path I will travel in the future. The last four lines of the poem illustrate this thought much more eloquently.

The quiet calm within
Rests in vibrating energy
Forever moving in the labyrinth
Of a self-created, preconceived future

Paraphrasing E.E Cummings, a poet is somebody who feels, and who expresses his or her feelings through words. This may sound easy. It isn't. A lot of people think or believe or know they feel, but that is thinking or believing or knowing. It is not feeling. Poetry is feeling. Almost anybody can learn to think or believe or know, but not a single human being can be taught to feel. Why? Because whenever we think or we believe or we know, we're a lot of other people. The moment we feel, we're nobody but our selves.

We are nobody but ourselves. Ahh… but that is a subject for another day and another idle musing of my mind written in the annals of time.

Namaste
Zsuzsa
2009