Spirits In Peace Blog

Inspiration can come in the oddest forms. Poets do not always gaze at sunsets; we do the same things any one else does: we wash dishes, shovel snow, cook our meals, get together with friends, gas up the car, and watch movies. About a week ago, I saw the well-known chick-flick The Devil Wears Prada, and that was that. I am not one for designer clothing, especially as I grow older, and I just don’t get spending a thousand dollars for a pair of jeans, which, after all, are in the end hardly formal wear.

My spirit is fed by fields of flowers and the sight of cherry blossoms and crab trees. If our spirits are not wrapped and comforted, if does not much matter what we wear on the outside….

Picture Courtesy of BigFoto

Strangely, just today, while breaking up the eternal, infernal ice on the walkways, the follow etheree began to appear in my brain. Later, I adjusted it on Word.

Inspiration can come from anything and everything and no poet would ever be able to list the sources, as they are so abundant.

I am grateful for each and every poem my Muse brings me, regardless of source.

No Devil In Prada: Two Etherées

You
can keep
your Jacobs
purse, Hilfiger
jeans, and Cavalli
top. Sell your eternal
soul for a Burberry scarf
and single spritz of Dolce et
Garbana. Buy your Armani ring,
Gucci watch, and Versace apparel!

Wrap
me with
summer air,
floral fields and
roses’ scent. Allow
me to clothe myself in
floral hues of plain linen.
Blanket me with indigo skies,
illuminating my path with stars.
I am not the devil wearing Prada!

Often poetry is designated as spiritual and I suppose such a term might easily be applied to certain pieces that clearly have this type of focus. I view every poem as a gift, my Muse being most generous, and those who are poets, as contrasted to simply writing doggerel or cute little ditties, are often very aware that poems often arrive as if almost pre-written in some other dimension. The poem, in effect, chose the poet, as opposed to the poet sitting down and laboriously composing the poem, with many corrections and revisions necessary.

Such pieces present themselves as polished gems, with little or no editing required, and that often involving merely the correction of typographical errors. In many cases, one cannot type fast enough, as the mental and spiritual processes are occurring with such rapidity.

Thus, are not all poems in some way spiritual? If I were to forget about Spirit (if such a thing were possible) and attempt to write, what am I doing other than playing at penning poetry, as everyone does, say, in elementary school? In that case, I am simply doing a creative exercise, rather like knitting a sweater from a pattern.

The poem cannot be separated from the poet. They are one and the same; as the poem arrives as a gift of the Universe, the Oneness of which everything is a part, the poet cannot be divorced from his or her work.

Such is the nature of One, and as such poems to me are gifts of Spirit, and in some way spiritual.

Winter has never been a season I have enjoyed, at least not in adulthood, and at some points in my life I have even suffered from S.A.D., having gone to work in the dark and come home in the dark.

Now that I can work on my own schedule, I see more of the limited daylight hours that this seasons offers, and often its majesty and brutal beauty give rise to nature and/or spiritual poetry. Such poems spring from a deep conviction that I have no right whatsoever to dislike any aspect of Sacred Creation, all of which has its purpose in the scheme of things. Winter is a season of rest and renewal. Not do I have enough years left in my life to waste them disliking much of anything, let alone anything over which I have absolutely no control.

I am in the icy moments that winter offers. I am part of the Oneness that is this season’s sleet and snow:

Each Icy Instant

I cannot will nor wish away such wintry winds
as bite and blow and blast with smart and sting.
I cannot command that merciful melting March arrive
with gusting western gales that soften filthy snow
and make it run in rivulets on roads and routes.

I cannot demand dark days to faster fly, nor can I
insist that beaming Brother Sun cut short his
crooked winding walk. But I can hold each icy instant
in my summer soul and breathe its sacred essence,
for in such season lies the rest from whence
resurgence springs. And soon enough sweet shoots
and sprouts will swiftly surge from rejuvenated soil.

copyright Carol Knepper

Without winter, how does one have an appreciation for spring?