Imagination and constraints are nearly incompatible; strange bedfellows at best. The most you can do, and certainly your poetic and photographic and musical and personal emotional expressions only “capture” a tiny portion of the big glow that pulsates within you and your aura, and your influence on the rest of us. For God’s sake, woman, you write a poem a day most of the time; hundreds of those poems show up on my site, and get carried elsewhere like tiny treasures found under the seat on the subway, in the back of a drawer, on the sidewalk, in the park by the roses. Imagination is the warp drive, the nuclear cosmic power source that drives everything. One does not stifle it, or use it up. It is inextinguishable, inexorable, bawdy, lusty, bold, textured, and voracious–and we can dip into it while in chains or while making love, or in slumber, during gardening, after a feast, or during it; today, right now.
Imagination and constraints are nearly
ReplyDeleteincompatible; strange bedfellows at best.
The most you can do, and certainly your
poetic and photographic and musical
and personal emotional expressions
only “capture” a tiny portion of the
big glow that pulsates within you
and your aura, and your influence on
the rest of us. For God’s sake, woman,
you write a poem a day most of the
time; hundreds of those poems show
up on my site, and get carried elsewhere
like tiny treasures found under the seat
on the subway, in the back of a drawer,
on the sidewalk, in the park by the roses.
Imagination is the warp drive, the nuclear
cosmic power source that drives everything.
One does not stifle it, or use it up. It is
inextinguishable, inexorable, bawdy, lusty,
bold, textured, and voracious–and we
can dip into it while in chains or while
making love, or in slumber, during gardening,
after a feast, or during it; today, right now.