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Sharing the Wonderment of Words


How have I begotten these?
I have no fluidity of words,
no craft,
no skill in shaping things.

Yet all these, my moody children are –
vying for your attention.

I gave birth to them -
in pain and anguish
and ardent wonderment of words.

I sent them forth upon the world,
some too young, and
some too old.

While some of them
will come back to me rejected,
here to stay,
forgotten, filed away;
others still will roam free,
and learn to live in other minds.

And then a phrase or image
bearing fruit
will bless them in the remembering.

All these, my petulant children are –
intrusive thoughts run amuck upon the page.

Images of madness and reconciled memories
collected and given cohesion
by the indifferent glue of words.

And yet the sum of them far exceeds
intended meaning,
and opens floodgates in another’s soul
I had not hoped for or suspected
when I gave birth to these,
my mangled thoughts on folio.

When I was young,
green -
naïve -
I tried my hand at writing verse
and only managed mediocrities.

And yet somehow -
as if mistake was made -
a pearl or two tumbled out,
and rolled away,
abandoned much too easily.

All these now, in my sixth decade
my aesthetic children are –
and while few are polished,
mature
or equal to my mentors’ work,
yet I am satisfied to share with you -
for what a difference
a bit of wisdom makes,
and the cascading overflow of years.



James Gagiikwe © 2008

Author notes

Robert Frost is another "mentor"

    : Comment:

Comments


  • Lad silver member
    January 25, 2008

    Edit | Reply
    A marvelous delight, J.G., this ode to the poet's children: words and more words, "glue"d together by even more words, building and growing into petulant and aesthetic children, but sparking, on occasion, lights "in another's soul..."

    The poem gets down to the reasons, the emotional reasons, for doing what we do when we sweat over our syllables and vowels, hoping they add up to a meaning. Well, this one adds up plenty for me. I believe you know what you're doing when writing a poem, an increasingly rare skill these days.

    In addition, the poem nicely manages to image the poet himself in his "sixth decade", and his "bit of wisdom" makes the whole thing work with graceful flow and honesty. Immensely appealing, J.G. Bravo - and I don't use that word often.

    With admiration,

    Lad