The Poetic Impulse Poem by Norah Tunney
The Poetic Impulse
Holy is this ground-
and this tender ache
that carves it's way
into the written word,
this creative impulse
ripping through
a stale way of seeing,
this world is shining with being-
don't you remember
your six year old self
and how excited you felt?
Yes! ! ! ! ! ! Exactly so, Norah! When I think back on my childhood, I remember so clearly the moments my childhood self etched into my memory- -full of the warmth of the sun on my skin, the smell of the sage in my nostrils, the feel of the spaniel's hair in my grubby little hands, and the sound of tension in my mother's voice that was so rare that I tuned out of my childhood long enough to be aware of the adults around me. If we could write with the passion and alertness of a six-year-old we would be Master Poets of all time! ! ! A well-crafted and well-imaged poem, my dear. This says it sooooooooooooooooooooooo well that I wish I could make it Poem of the Day but since I can't I will put it on my fav list and give it a million stars and a 10!
Yes Susan I agree about the passion and alertness of a 6 year old and also that childlike sense of wonder that you and Edmund describe so beautifully, I wrote a poem called the light in everything which describes an old man sweeping the floor of the village inn who radiated that Light. I have never seen a more alive radiant childlike being than that old man. I'm wandering a little but it's all connected. I feel your radiance through your poetry and comments. You Shine Susan.
the tender ache, creative impulse the childhood memories that live in us and forms later into sweet poems.......... thank you dear mystic poetess. Norah
Yes Anthony much of the time it seems the poet is recalling things that happened. Bringing the past back to life. We are generally reflective and contemplative by nature So it seems to me. But I know less and less as I age. Happy to live in the unknown.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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5/7/2024 7:47:52 AM # 1.0.0.1119
To catch a flying grasshopper and watch it in a jar. To drag a basket along a ditch and hoist a treasure of baby crayfish. The squish of muck between toes the smack of bare feet running upon hot pavement after a brief summer shower that left the world steaming. Did they touch us all the same or did the tiny poet linger a little longer as the parade went by? You already know the answer.
Yes! ! and so do you EdmundStrollis. Poets tend to linger in the sense of things, they love to pause and ponder and lean in deep to the mystery within, living deep in the blood and bone ground of being for example the wonderful experiences you and Susan describe. For the mystic poet everyone and everything cry aloud the presence of Being. He sees what you so exquisitely express in your poem The mystic in me