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About This Author
My name is Joy, and I love to write.
Why poetry, here? Because poetry uplifts its writer, and if she is lucky enough, her readers, too. Around us, so many objects abound to write about. Once a poet starts with a smallest, most trivial object, he shall discover that his pen will spill out what is most delicate or most majestic hidden inside him. Since the classics sometimes dealt with lofty subjects with a lofty language, a person with poetry in his soul may incline to emulate that. That is understandable. Poetry does that to a person: it enlarges the soul and gives it wings. Yet, to really soar, a poet needs to take off from the ground.
 
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Everyday Canvas
"Failure is unimportant. It takes courage to make a fool of yourself."
CHARLIE CHAPLIN
Sometimes it takes darkness and the sweet
confinement of your aloneness
to learn
anything or anyone
that does not bring you alive
is too small for you.
David Whyte
This is my supplementary blog in which I will post entries written for prompts.
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Prompt: Fog, Crossroads, Stairway; use these words any way you want in your writing entry today.
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Something hangs there to be said about fog, muffling the sharp edges in a gentle blanket, the shrouding element of it with a soft grayness as if it is a “stairway to heaven.” Why is it that, anytime I start to write anything, a song breaks through my consciousness? Oh, what the…, I might as well go with it.
For the one who is buying the stairway to heaven, “If the stores are all closed/ With a word she can get what she came for…” She can? Maybe that floozy knows how to handle the crossroads in getting what she wants, how to take the “less traveled road.”
Go away, Frost! I am trying to stay with the fog, today. “'Cause you know sometimes words have two meanings//In a tree by the brook//
There's a songbird who sings// Sometimes all of our thoughts are misgiving/” And maybe she really has bought the stairway to heaven.
Whether she made it up on that stairway or not, the fog is sometimes a heavy feeling of being only half-awake, of living in a dreamlike state, something like sleepwalking. That, in reality, is a mental disorder caused by a faulty thyroid, which makes “our shadows taller than our soul.” Thank you, Led Zeppelin, but enough for now.
Related to shadows, maybe the fog is only an external vision of the mind, and the soul, in our core, is the more important dramatic part that intensifies our colors as in a sunset or sunrise. The fog may point to a scene like in Dickens’ muddy and extremely polluted London streets of the mid-nineteenth century, in hyperbole because all writers love hyperbole, to show the lowly coal-burning “making a soft black drizzle with flakes of soot” versus Dickens’ loftier writing soul cheering the inimitable British Empire.
And my mind, in its foggy state, roams around “every which way, but loose.” What, Clint Eastwood now?
That does it. My fifteen minutes of entry-writing time is just about up anyway. Read at your own risk.  |
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