Poetic Reflections: scrambled

I’m sure you must be wondering what I mean by the title up there. That’s what I’m trying to figure out. I’ll let you know once I do. You see, I was beset by ideas for a variety of verse, as if a storm blew in and showered me — instead of droplets, with letters that collected into puddles of words on my mental parchment. As I sit here drying off, tapping keys to convey and capture the essence of the deluge, I have been attempting to glean some thread of grand design that binds them all together. A theme of sorts that I could slap up there and prattle about at succinct length to introduce these jumbled thoughts that will hopefully spell out poems.

All I could come up with, I’m afraid, was “scrambled”. These notions seem to have naught but differences. No common ground. They are as random and unrelated as snowflake patterns; the faces in a crowd. Unless it’s a family reunion, I suppose. Or a circus of fleas performing stunts on the back of a hound. (Fleas all pretty much look alike, don’t you think? Or is that a misconception? I certainly don’t mean to make prejudicial statements, even about insects.)

Where on earth am I going with this?

I wish I knew.

I wish you knew.

I wish somebody knew something and would let me know!

I really appreciate you for reading this. And any of my other convoluted disconcerting miss-conceits, if you were so kind. Yes, I really appreciate that. You don’t know how much. How many people would tolerate such ramblings and rumblings and unwieldy rampages across the page? Very few, I am sure. So I appreciate you enormously. Just thought I’d mention it since I am speaking so frankly about everything and nothing in particular!

Which, come to think of it, may be the theme of this column. What do you know? And don’t pretend you did know, because you didn’t! Not that I’m insulting your intelligence, because that is a cardinal rule in writing. Never insult the reader. Although I would if I felt like it, if I had a very good reason, because I take delight in bending or breaking literary rules. In case you’ve forgotten.

Just thought I’d throw that in too, while I’m at it.

Now that I’ve discussed the significance of “scrambled”, I suppose I should get on with the actual verse end of this month’s extravaganza. Hmm, I’m afraid I’ve run out of inspiration! Can I get away with one-word poems this time? Probably not. Someone would notice. Or would they? What if the readers are really not that intelligent, and that’s why they’re reading this? Oh, there I go! I just had to do it, didn’t I? Now you’ll never read my words again and I will lose what few followers I had because I can’t resist, I just can’t resist, defying conventions! It’s a serious flaw that has caused me nothing but grief and frustration and dejection and rejection. But why am I telling you this when you’re already gone?

Perfect. Now I’m writing for myself. Which is how this whole mess started in the first place! If I want to succeed, I have to write for others, right? Isn’t that how it works?

When will I learn?

That was a rhetorical question, yet I suppose I should answer it anyway because that’s how I am. And there’s no one else here to answer it, so here goes . . . Ahem!

Drat, I can’t think of a clever response. Oh well. Now that my brain is thoroughly drained of wit or whim and as empty as my pockets (being a struggling-artist worst-selling author), I guess I’ll go figuratively pen a flurry of poems. It’s the best time — when I’m least likely to say anything sensible.

~ Published ~
July 12, 2010