Or so I feel

“A poet is somebody who feels, and who expresses his feelings through words. This may sound easy, but it isn’t. A lot of people think or believe or know they feel — but that’s thinking or believing or knowing; not feeling. And poetry is feeling — not knowing or believing or thinking. Almost anybody can learn to think or believe or know, but not a single human being can be taught to feel. Why? Because whenever you think or you believe or you know, you’re a lot of other people: but the moment you feel, you’re nobody-but-yourself. To be nobody-but-yourself — in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else — means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting. As for expressing nobody-but-yourself in words, that means working just a little harder than anybody who isn’t a poet can possibly imagine. Why? Because nothing is quite as easy as using words like somebody else. We all of us do exactly this nearly all of the time – and whenever we do it, we are not poets. If, at the end of your first ten or fifteen years of fighting and working and feeling, you find you’ve written one line of one poem, you’ll be very lucky indeed. And so my advice to all young people who wish to become poets is: do something easy, like learning how to blow up the world — unless you’re not only willing, but glad, to feel and work and fight till you die. Does this sound dismal? It isn’t. It’s the most wonderful life on earth. Or so I feel.”

(e.e. Cummings)


I carried my camera everywhere.
From the hotel, into the city, through the streets and shops, to the wedding and everywhere after.

But at the time, it didn’t seem necessary to take the camera out. The moments were worth enjoying  with clear vision, unencumbered by lens;  they were meant to be enjoyed organically, not frozen in time.

I didn’t take a single picture of our weekend in Baltimore, and then yesterday, I sat at a blank screen wishing that I had something to post other than words. Because the words just weren't coming. There was nothing to say. 

So to fill my own silence, a few thoughts from the great e.e. cummings, and a photo not my own. (Because isn’t that such a large part of art? Borrowing and stealing from your betters?)


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