Vapors Of Myself Poem by Tom Courtney

And then I realized
there are meanings with which I must deal
vapors floating over the vast basin
I rise late in the morning and face the sun
a fierce desire burning high and consummate
leave the dreams of myself with no parting word
The great holy inner being rages on
and the light calls to me now come
the one of inside scarred in forgetfulness
Well into the day I come to the river
to see the melted rain spots flow into the earth
All the water has direction
All the motion has come before
All there is to ever fathom as my life
now dense like the jungle tangled wild
My thought can only be single buried rising hopeful
towards the day to ever be and be forgotten
I gather seeds pods spores leopard heart
pumping gurgling the leopard’s blood flows
I breathe into my fist the ground fails me
and will not support my weight
the sky bursts open before my inclination
I need only speak the word and the word was i
I had to be before all was washed away
I had to speak feeble fluttering heart
rising from the tombs of my ancestors
I rise for the time to ever be
in God who gave us the earth and heavens
and man who gave us fragments of meanings
and vapors of myself

Notes: OK, we seldom do this, but here's what it means (to me.. haha, as if I knew!)

Rising in the morning symbolizes desire, or desire 'defines' rising.
The river is water, which symbolizes fulfillment of the desire, as in drinking the water. But in imbibing fulfillment, I want to know more, take the next step: what is the source of fulfillment (in life) ? This plunges me into a complicated, tangled inquiry. I feel overwhelmed, as entering a strange new world. Seeds, etc. and heart are sources of life, but leave me still questioning. I have found the sources of life (biological, at least) , but now, at the culmination of my journey, I fall (the ground fails me...) I cast about, realizing I write my own journey: I
must find myself! I desperately look to my ancestors, to God and to man (mankind) , and what do I find? ...

Better, don't explain so much, that's the beauty of poetry (?)

No, I don't think so.

I think any effort to be artistic involves a commitment to communication. Without communicating, you have self-absorption, arrogance, and ultimately you have lost your opportunity to create community. So be it, for now at least. Anyway, I hate... (ouch, I hate the word hate too. I want to stop even using that hateful word.)

I was saying, I have emotional trouble with 'art' I cannot understand, don't you? That's why I try to explain my silly poem here. Peace?

One final comment. I don't necessarily 'like' this poem. It seems to me that poems just sort of happen. They are like children: we don't have complete control over them. They can delight us or disappoint us. But I guess we love them, even as we see our imperfections in them!