Pulling strings
By Brandon Astor Jones
"The poet's heart, it is said, must find and be in agreement with the reader's intellect." — Irving Elmer Bell
From time to time, as a new feature in this space, I will compose a poem in the hope of bringing readers and myself closer together. The poem will be published again when one reader — whose critique of the poem I hope to choose from many in 250 words or less — tells me in a clearly printed letter what s/he feels is the central message conveyed by the poem that appears at the end of this space.
As quid pro quo, I request that the reader likewise compose a poem of his or her own, consisting of no more than 110 words, and in turn I will critique your poem. The best combination of critique and poem will be presented at a later date. We will have some fun!
This idea came to me as I read the Wall Street Journal (September 10), in which Anne S. Lewis reported on the resurgence of "Poetry in Motion: Slam-Dunking With Words".
Think '60s coffee houses with makeshift stages upon which poets of every kind performed their creations. To be chosen the best in the house for the night or day carries its own special kind of honour.
Most of my readers know that I have a soft heart. According to Lewis' article, "... the poet who yanks most cathartically on the judges' heart strings wins".
I do not see this space as a coffee house, but many of us do get together very well in it. I should note also that while I am not a card carrying poetry judge, I do have strings. Come on, pull my strings if you dare.
Life's Emotional Gutter
Trying to wade through the treacherous middle-mire of the inner being's need for familial stealth
We sometimes, quite inadvertently, encounter those ageless parental-beginnings and endings of what usually is a myriad of others
So many, in fact, that a well intentioned quest for 'Meaning' can be sadly reduced to little more than an ancestral desire for wealth
In which vanities, long lying unconsciously in their pristine dormancies, rise up in arms against the sought 'Self' we then smother
Hiding, child-like, amid the Goodness and Innocence of a spirit-mind too long wasted that falls into its own very bad health
And therein, too late we realise that Truth's Illumination is not our mindless descent into, but instead, the ascension out of
Life's Emotional Clutter
[The writer is a prisoner on death row in the United States. He welcomes letters commenting on his columns. He can be written to at: Brandon Astor Jones, EF-122216, G3-77, Georgia Diagnostic & Classification Prison, PO Box 3877, Jackson, GA 30233, USA.]