This Poem was Submitted By: Mell W. Morris On Date: 2005-05-13 10:56:23 . . . Click Here To Mail this Poem to a Friend!

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Around the Block

It's said that poetry is a dualism of spirituality and worldliness and one poet called it, "That weird word world." For many, poetry charms, inspires, and resonates like a few bars of hesitation blues. This art form dislocates and places me atop a mesa, a plateau never before reached and from where I can watch the activity of raptors and feel a rapture reel and radiate from an aerie. Many queries thrum through our poetry and the answers produce knowledge, my most important need. Whatever style or form we  use, come the days when poets are silent and quiet, wordless and maimed by self-doubt into a sadness of no seasons. The darkness occludes spontaneity, insouciance and however long the block lasts, we  are united in this problem and the union seems  to render strength. Poets' hands find pens and our lives return to a degree of normalcy from that which we learned. Namely, if muses mutiny or a curtain falls mid-rhyme, all we need do is bide our time as we exist for poetry... ...and poetry exists.
Copyright © May 2005 Mell W. Morris

Additional Notes:
"That Weird Word World" from the poem "Several Hours After the Death of a Salesman" By Thomas E. Wright Used with author's permission.

This Poem was Critiqued By: Latorial D. Faison On Date: 2005-06-07 21:51:07
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.91489
Mell, You hit the nail dead center with this poem. We write for so many different reasons, but all together it's for one reason, because we exist. Because we strive to live, poetry exists, and I think it always will. I love how you recall the words of other poets as you record your own wisdoms on the craft of poetry writing. It's more than a hobby, it's a calling. When you see it as you calling, then it helps to measure what you're worth. Poetry is a duality. There's no doubt about it. Thanks for sharing. Great poem. Latorial www.latorialfaison.com

This Poem was Critiqued By: Thomas H. Smihula On Date: 2005-06-06 07:59:26
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.87805
Mell, First let me say my thoughts are with you. Poetry, you are one of the few that understands it reason for existing. Knowing that there is both a physical and internal part within each verse. You have shared that thought with us in the first verse by referencing dualism. Questions arise within each word presented as you so elequently state in you next stanza. Your presentation of poetry hits it directly. We live to read it, we live to write it, we cherish it for music is within earch verse depicting life. Excellent, wouldn't change a thing on this. Love this type of work. Thomas.
This Poem was Critiqued By: Nancy Ann Hemsworth On Date: 2005-06-03 07:25:19
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.80000
I really enjoyed reading this Mel. Very well stated..and I especially enjoyed your last stanza in wrapping this piece up. "Poets' hands find pens and our lives return to a degree of normalcy from that which we learned. Namely, if muses mutiny or a curtain falls mid-rhyme, all we need do is bide our time as we exist for poetry..." so true. I think we all feel what you have felt and mentioned in this poem, writers block, the self-doubt, the need to get out our feeling in so form of poetry. The written word so important and powerful if placed well. Oh and the need for knowledge, indeed. In your last stanza I thought the use of in-line rhyme worked well to bring this together."mid-rhyme, all we need do is bide our time " as well as the constant usage of the "m" sound within these lines. great job, always enjoy your thoughts and writing. have a great weekend. nancy
This Poem was Critiqued By: Troy D Skroch On Date: 2005-05-24 21:13:15
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Mell, It has been an unusually busy month. I’m just getting some time to read and comment on some of the poems at the TPL. Your poem, I read earlier, but wanted to be sober and of a clear mind before I wrote to you. Hell, forget the poem. I just like talking to you. lol Oops, I better be careful, the critique police might be watching. lol Anyway, now that I’ve vented my wicked humor we can talk about your favorite subject—poetry. It's said that poetry is a dualism of spirituality and worldliness and one poet called it, "That weird word world." Defining poetry is such a difficult, impossible task, just trying takes something away. I like the idea of a “dualism of spirituality and worldliness”, it’s as close a statement as any to finding that place, “that weird word world”, that poetry resides in. Yet, part of me wants to add that it’s when we see beyond the words that we truly see into poetry’s world. It’s as if the words are just the key to the door that let us into a state of indescribability that’s both spiritual and worldly, but at the same time, something else. It’s certainly its own. It’s like a fundamental truth that’s always there, yet has to be accessed to be appreciated and admired. I guess there is too much romantic in me, aside from my wickedness. lol I’ve caught myself describing and defining this genre as the most efficient, thought eliciting form of communication possible. Not good enough. That it is the closest relationship a reader and writer can have short of holding hands. Kind of cool, but still not good enough. I’ve boasted it to be a metaphor in and of itself analogous to the best and worst parts of anything occurring naturally, spiritually or created. And perhaps I’m getting closer to the mark. I don’t know. It’s elusive and is so much to so many. It is part of what I consider the All. And that doesn’t make sense. lol “Give up and move on”, you say. “You’re about as crude as a streaker at his ex-wife’s wedding!” Actually heard about that one. lol For many, poetry charms, inspires, and resonates like a few bars of hesitation blues. Nice. This art form dislocates and places me atop a mesa, a plateau never before reached and from where I can watch the activity of raptors and feel a rapture reel and radiate from an aerie. Many queries thrum Perfect description of where I picture you to be. I once thought of you inside of a room of windows looking out from every direction. Then I transposed that to a diamond. Now I see that you are much freer than that. “Raptors” Are you talking about the dinosaurs? Kidding of course. lol Love the alliteration. Always love the way you shape and write your poems into existence. through our poetry and the answers produce knowledge, my most important need. Whatever style or form we use, come the days when poets are silent and quiet, wordless and maimed by self-doubt into a sadness Yes, any form indeed. Personally, I am afraid of margins. I find them pushy. A dangerous place for kings and queens always yelling back and forth across the page. This lowly Jack chooses to keep his head in the center. hehe Ah, well, no sadness anymore. Piss on sadness. The pains in my chest get a little stronger each year. I will leave sadness for those who want to be sad and tell them to give me love instead of bread. A meal more nourishing than any. But, yes, a poet without words is a sad thing indeed. That is the time when they need the vision the most to look past the words into the very truth of it all. To see and touch this law, this universal, this magic . To let this place burn the words back into them as gentle as a kiss not given in Hollywood but as the breeze blows drying the skin both cool and warm beneath an eternal sun. To that “weird word world” that flames the eyes of surprise and lets you pull out of the wax. I guess if it made sense, I would know the answer to that one. Just content to be clueless, am I. of no seasons. The darkness occludes spontaneity, insouciance and however long the block lasts, we are united in this problem and the union seems to render strength. Poets' hands find pens and our lives return to a degree of normalcy from that which we learned. Namely, if muses mutiny or a curtain falls mid-rhyme, all we need do is bide our time as we exist for poetry... ...and poetry exists. Yes, poetry exists. There you go. You said it. Mell, I know that even though you wrote this in the first person, it is not necessarily a poem to exclusive to you. You exclude nobody who has ever braved to raise a pen or plink the keyboard. I find your writing, always challenging, inclusive, expressive and, in some ways, entertaining, though, that may be exclusive to me. lol And when I’m done reading your poetry, somehow I find myself knowing more and less than when I started. I hope you and yours are well and in love with life, poetry and have come to the conclusion that margins are a very limited dangerous place ruled by Kings and Queens that are always trying to tell you what to do! Troy p.s. I have been lax in my homework. I still intend to read your favorites list, but as you are on the top of my favorites list, they have to wait. When I read them, I will place their poems in the center of the page.
This Poem was Critiqued By: hello haveaniceday On Date: 2005-05-22 14:04:34
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 1.00000
Thank you Mell, this is so artfully and respoectfully said. I wanted to finish the unspoken end "for us" but perhaps "for all" or "for you" since mostly poetry is read alone. I like your use of uncommon words: thrum, insouciance... and your word combinatins that are so lovely on the mind's tongue: "watch the activity of raptors and feel rature" "if muses mutiny or a curtain falls mid-rhyme". Thanks for this, it's both inspiring and reassuring. Barb
This Poem was Critiqued By: charles r pitts On Date: 2005-05-17 17:25:29
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 1.00000
was so hoping this was your original work. i was getting all worked up until i read the end credits and realized that i would have to wait yet longer for an entree from you with which satisfy the gnawing hunger left by the absence of your mental victuals. know that while we wait for you to cook...we hunger. charlie
This Poem was Critiqued By: Rick Barnes On Date: 2005-05-17 17:18:41
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 1.00000
Mell, Damn! Have you been reading my mail? I have been trying for a few months to figure out why, with all of the turmoil I have gone through lately, why haven't I been churning out the poetry. The shit hammer has fallen so hard in the last few weeks that I was in fear for my sanity. Then I read this: Whatever style or form we use, come the days when poets are silent and quiet, wordless and maimed by self-doubt into a sadness of no seasons. The darkness occludes spontaneity, insouciance and however long the block lasts, we are united in this problem and the union seems to render strength. Poets' hands find pens and our lives return to a degree of normalcy from that which we learned. Namely, if muses mutiny or a curtain falls mid-rhyme, all we need do is bide our time as we exist for poetry... ...and poetry exists. I mean, DAMN Mell. How could you have possibly known? This is it EXACTLY!!! I have started to write again but for some odd reason my style is changing once again. I think I am done with Textures. It has taught me all that it possibly can. Your work just gets stronger and stronger. I can't tell you how glad I am that you write poetry. I cna't tell yuo how glad I am that you wrote this work and posted it when you did. IT's all starting to make sense. Of course that has happened before only to evaporate into the mist. Oh well............ Rick
This Poem was Critiqued By: Thomas Edward Wright On Date: 2005-05-17 09:17:58
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Hi I finally got through the list and this is the last piece of pie in the tin. I wasn't sure how you were going to use me. Call this another thrill for a small town boy. His name in Texas lights. Mother woulda been proud. Thanks Mell. all the best from Up North. tom
This Poem was Critiqued By: Claire H. Currier On Date: 2005-05-17 04:09:06
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.91304
Good Morning Poet.........Around the Block.......good title, allows for different avenues to follow.....this poet has been lost in that block for such a long time I am beginning to wonder if there is an end to this long rope of searching.......so I let it go and wait for its return.......good structure, word flow, emotions created along with images due to your pen Poet........interesting how we all have come through these avenues in our writing......and it amazes me how one can produce such a masterpiece even when caught in the lack of words as they say...........I am not speaking of this writing poet just thoughts of others returning because of this piece.......poetry does, indeed exist my friend......we are surrounded by it, consumed by it, and are more then willing to share it all with others when able to........thank you for posting, for letting me know there is still hope for me to write once more.......bless you dear one.......Claire
This Poem was Critiqued By: marilyn terwilleger On Date: 2005-05-15 14:51:54
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.77778
Hi Mell, First let me say that your title about writers block is igenious because when I saw the title the farthest thing from my mind was writers block! The entire piece is written in pure "Mell" fashion and certainly does depict excately what I go through occasionally. I loved the reference to Tom's poem.. that wierd word world"...I do think poets are a different breed of writers..'for many, poetry charms, inspirs, and resonates like a few bars of hesitation blues'...I am going to remember this line...very original and poingnant. In the second stanza I love the use of raptors, rapture, reel and radiate. Your poetry is always alive with words that match and compliment one another...you are unique, Mell, not many poets can do this but it seems to me you do with ease. In the third stanza you get to the 'meat' of the problem of writers block....come the days when poets are silent and quiet, wordless and maimed by self-doubt into a sadness of no seasons. Ah yes...that is it exacatly...the self doubt can be over- whelming not to mention depressing. There are times when I want to write so bad but when I try the words do not come, it is then that I know I must wait until I feel a poem or feel inspired enough to write. Sometimes "they" just jump up and yell to be written and it is then that I seem to do my best work. ...'the darkness occludes spontaneity, insouciance (wonderful word...brovo!) and however long the block lasts, we are united in this problem and the union seems to render strength....Oh I hope so!...'namely, if muses mutiny or a curtain falls mid-rhyme (I hate it when that happens) all we need do is bide our time as we exist for poetry....and poetry exists. I feel as though you have just given me a wonderful pep talk as you have addressed all the ins and outs of writers block. You have given it a name and an essence and made it real...not just a crutch to lean on when we write something that is really malodorous. I have written about 116 poems that I have posted here and feel that perhaps I have said it all...well all I can write about. I hope everyone reads this piece as it is important for all poets, not only are we a different breed of writer we need to know when the words won't come that we are not alone and maybe we just need to rest our thoughts until we can put them on paper once more. Stupendous!! Blessings...Marilyn
This Poem was Critiqued By: Mark Andrew Hislop On Date: 2005-05-15 14:11:39
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Mell-O Um ... yeah. I gather you write poetry? How else are you so au fait with that problematic god who is forever offering Tantalus handfuls of grapes, whisking them away at the crucial moment, whether you're writing it or reading it? Okay, I snatched a grape from you this time. But it tastes disturbingly familiar. Mark.
This Poem was Critiqued By: Dellena Rovito On Date: 2005-05-14 16:32:37
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.84615
Marsh-Mell-o, I think normalcy is the up/and down of writing. Something to say/nothing to say. Push to/and not to.......The rhythm of life and poetry. I believe a poet does exist to write. Upon doing so, theres a reward of satisfaction that is fulfillment to the 'soul' [as you say/spiritually] I like your poem, it's quite nice. Around the block is a great title. Some writings, take your guts and hang you out to dry and you feel you've been around the block.... Raptors are a scary lot....... Thank God for the ability to express though the 'tool' of poetry. Hoping your skipping rope, Love dellena
This Poem was Critiqued By: Paul R Lindenmeyer On Date: 2005-05-14 15:11:12
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 1.00000
Mello, am going out the door. Will e you my crit. I love the work. Peace, Paul
This Poem was Critiqued By: Duane J Jackson On Date: 2005-05-14 04:55:05
Critiquer Rating During Critique: Unknown
Hi Mell, This piece was beautifully written. You've taken the entire poet community under your wing and given them one voice. While reading this piece, not only was I taken in by the theme, the rich language and the way the poem flowed but the kind of shelter it provided. It's not often that one comes across a poem written about poetry itself and I felt reassured as I was reminded of the fact that I write, not for the sake of it, but to enlighten, to be enlightened, to seek and to find and to feel good ('This art form dislocates and places me atop a mesa'). I was reassured that this under-estimated world (the world of poetry) I inhabit is not just some strange space inhabited by strange and aloof people, but a world that is infact my very heart and soul. You addressed the issue of 'writers block' as well and that, for most people can be the most trying and testing period when all seems lost. The use of 'muse mutiny' was stark. YES, 'we exist for poetry... ...and poetry exists.' As always, a gem of a piece Mell. It was a pleasure. Hope all is well with you. Take Care, Duane.
This Poem was Critiqued By: Joanne M Uppendahl On Date: 2005-05-13 14:26:36
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Dearest Mell-O: I will try to behave myself and act serious, because that is the kind of respect that this ars poetica deserves. You must know that I am thrilled to find it today as to read any of your poems is a wondrous experience, but particularly this one, as I know you haven’t been feeling well. But your poetic spirit is stronger than ever. Throughout the poem you speak to this. Your soulful nature radiates from this poem, it's luminous and – what is the word I want – transcendent. No that’s too big a one – it makes me feel something, many, many things too deep for words. It's said that poetry is a dualism of spirituality and worldliness and one poet called it, "That weird word world." For many, poetry charms, inspires, and resonates like a few bars of hesitation blues. Someone whose opinion I deeply respect said that poetry is the highest art form. Your poem is an example of why that is so. It captures something of each world in which we dwell – an ethereal one and a material one. Your friend said it very well. Hard to say “That weird word world” without laughing and breaking into smiles. I am thinking hard on this though (always a sign of wordiness on its way). I will think hard on it for a long time, because it contains more than I can absorb in one sitting, like a great feast of music, laughter, food, love, candlelight, tea and honey. I need to get back to your divine metaphor, however. I love the line below, as you include both raptor and rapture. It is sheer sensuality and also soul music, the very duality that you referred to in L1 of S1. Raptors are predators who feed on the physical bodies of other birds. (I am thinking out loud again.) Birds are so often symbols of the spiritual, but here is a bird who is going for blood and will eat the entrails, too. Out of necessity for its own life and for that of its progeny. They contribute to the ecology or whole life of the surrounding area. Poetry seems to capture both the strength and raw beauty of the raptor and the seeming vulnerability and ethereal nature of the songbird. But then, while my mind is going over these your scintillating words again, I am caught for a while in “rapture reel and radiate from an eerie.” You know I am thinking Coltrane, and Wynton Marsalis, and YoYo Ma. Those words make my heart beat to a rhythm that is close to ecstatic. I just want to say them over and over again and inhale them. Feel them circulate in my blood. Fill my aura with purple light. :) Many queries thrum through our poetry and the answers produce knowledge, my most important need. Yes, knowledge – that is what we are here for, isn’t it? And, dear Mell-O, you wisely know that it comes from listening to the God-given spirit within. How to find those answers? You show us below, again in a heart-startling way. You have, as another poet has written, submitted to your poetic voice. What comes from that is something that elevates us all to a new level, a new mesa. Your sharing that here makes me have more knowledge of you and of poetry and of myself. Beyond knowledge it increases my heart’s ability to enfold it, absorb it. I can’t get that, even from Mitsuko Uchida’s and Mark Steinberg’s recording of Mozart’s Sonata for Keyboard and Violin No.25 in F K377. OK, I’ll stop rhapsodizing, but only for a few minutes. (Calming) Whatever style or form we use, come the days when poets are silent and quiet, wordless and maimed by self-doubt into a sadness of no seasons. –Oh, yes! You are going deeper. I am listening. The darkness occludes spontaneity, insouciance and however long the block lasts, we are united in this problem and the union seems to render strength. You have written of it brilliantly – that anguished waiting, doubting, laboring – a dry birth – and eventually emerging from the chrysalis of something which strengthens and illuminates. The light after the long, long, dark night. Into the white no-thing-ness. (forgive me, I'm way out in the stratosphere) Poets' hands find pens and our lives return to a degree of normalcy from that which we learned. You’ve pinned it down precisely here, and beautifully. How can we be normal when we are not submitting to our poetry, our voice? It is scary sometimes how urgent that need is! The writings in the backs of books, on napkins, even on the sides of paper cups. Scrawled anywhere or said over and over again by the ocean waves and our hearts race as we try to get to the pen and paper. It is as necessary for life as … Namely, if muses mutiny or a curtain falls mid-rhyme, all we need do is bide our time as we exist for poetry... ...and poetry exists. You make me weep, Mell. It is the hope within the hopelessness, a light within sheer misery – as we struggle to see past that curtain which inevitably falls in “mid-rhyme” -- I am within those two space before the last line. Existing. Waiting for the poetry. Longing for more of your poetry. Brava, my beloved friend! And for you I am holding woven basket filled up with bright purple imp trailing double petunias, deep blue lobelia, Grecian windflowers, and a glowing, apricot, Camellia-flowered begonia. And listening, learning to bide my time. With love, Joanne
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