DEEP THOUGHTS UPON WAKING

I might be digging myself a hole here, but here goes.

On November 1st this year I gave my talk about the material in the book I self-published in 2014. After I scheduled the talk at the library, NAMI kindly stepped in and sponsored it. My daughter flew up from Atlanta to support me, and counted 25 in attendance. I gave them egg nog. Almost half those attending were friends, come to support me.

My book is actually quite good, and failed to be puchased widely because I was unable to push it. This morning I realized that my synonym for push is manipulate, and that’s something my father was good at.

Then it came to me that this is what capitalism is all about, manipulation.  I don’t believe I manipulate, and am touchy when I suspect others might be trying to manipulate me.  Oh I could dig down deeper and discover times when I may have unconsciously manipulated, but if so I apologize.  These reflections led to the “poem” I published on my blog yesterday, and some of the feedback.  I embarrassed myself by the stanza:

Poems mirror the mind, you know.                                                                                                            What are the parts we’re willing to show?
Blood from a refugee’s eyeball
pooling on the floor at the mall?

I might have done better if I’d taken more time.  But, still waking up this morning, I began to wonder who we write poems for.  If we post them publicly on a blog, surely we write for others?  After five years (omg, has it been five?) my readership is miniscule, which suggests that I don’t write for my readers.  (Sorry).

Tho it sounds stuffy, I write from my own muse, who does a good job of comforting me.  I guess I write for the echo.  I recall my tidbit from the past:  Here’s the thing: I’ve been talking through this loudspeaker I found in my crib 80 years ago and just now notice it’s not plugged in.

I realize a line might be drawn between therapy poetry groups and straight ones, but where does a blog fit in?  And now I wonder what’s the difference between trying to make my point versus manipulating you, but at least I’m upfront about it.

About Nan Mykel

At 79, I was just about to stop keeping a journal, but that felt like accepting that growth was finished. I don't want to be finished, yet! I'm 80 now, and struggling to communicate with you, if you'll come and set awhile. P.S. My how time flies! I'm 83 now.
This entry was posted in A mixed bag, Poetry Philosophy. Bookmark the permalink.

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