Metaphorical And Fanciful

The poetic genre I love

When earth shakes, do snakes escape from its mouth? while all roots unroot from the soil? — how can I, the author of this sentence, be surprised by what I’ve written on my own… is it my natural ability to observe from another’s perception that brings me to that conclusion? Or perhaps, let us be a little insane, odd, and whimsical, and let us say that it was a presence, the muse that murmured it in my right ear.

A crack, an opening, the underground, catacombs — yes, I write semi-automatically, plunged emotionally inside the subconscious lagoon of my core. My poems are metaphorical; I let whatever wants to sprout out be, I just kind of express myself unconsciously. The moment I have a subject in my mind, no matter what the subject might be, I go for it, I let my creativity take full possession of my being.

Should I say that I write while accessing my Random Access Memory, I don’t know! But what I do know on the other hand, is that when I write a poem, I completely abandon myself in the hands of artistry, and where the finished product needs to trigger the emotion of astonishment and puzzlement inside of me, where the question is it really me that has written that oddity needs to arise in my mind, or else, everything needs to be rewritten because my soul feels dissatisfied, my hunger and thirst for aestheticism left unquenched. I like to be the reader behind the eyes that has written the work, same as I would have read any other writings. I am out of my mind when I write, but back into the shell when editing.

The seascape joins the shoreline, giving birth to an oneiric landscape — figurative, fanciful, metaphorical — this is how I want my writing to be described as, and known for, and where I try my best to construct lines and paragraphs in the way that I want them to be, as I like them, in a pleasurable way, and always remembering the emotions that arise in me when I read the work of other authors.

“When I write poems, I want the world to flow through me, for the world is a mystery, an everfloating debris of emotions.”

When I write poems, I want the world to flow through me, for the world is a mystery, an everfloating debris of emotions. Thus, I want to write poems about everything that the world holds, wanting to be the medium through which the hatred, violence, love, romance, death, happiness, sadness, and all these emotions that have been given away to life (entity to me) incarnate themselves through the poetry I write.

Yesterday my husband and I were discussing about a movie that we were watching, a peculiar one, and where both of us had different thoughts concerning the enigmatic ending of the movie, which I do think was poetic, that it was opened to every kind of interpretation, the beauty of creative work. That’s when I realised that my poems, too, or any other poems, are interpreted differently by various readers, simply because everyone’s tastes are different, to each their own. And that’s how I fell in love with poetry, through the metaphors, the flowery, the fanciful, the surreal language and imagery used, and that’s the degree of aesthetic that I want to ornate my writings with, so that readers that are fond of that genre might gain the ultimate satisfaction… at least I try to.

Being who I am, I am unable to write about serious matters, or any other subject that I’m not drawn to without getting bored, but where I have enormous respect for those who write these kind of intellectual articles meant for informational and educational purposes, the type of articles that are not meant to tickle the fancy of readers. When I read poems and fiction, I want to feel the thrill, to taste the forbidden, to mindscape in another dimension of existence; I want the surreal to wrap me in that physical unseen world, but that exists in the mind of its author, in a metaphorical way; and that’s my dream too, to paint my writing with metaphors, to show to the audience the dreams that float in my mind.

Do my poems echo back emotions, the creation that’s voiceless, yet veiled with imagination? Are they movie projectors where the films display bits and pieces of what my imagination holds, though metaphorical and surreal? Or, are the poems I write same as in dissection of a poem, a poem where elements of my own experiences sneak silently within its construction. In the end, I just hope, and do my best, so that these poems I write are surreal and metaphorical, and aesthetically pleasing to the reader’s mind; that you, dear readers, are conquered by this poetic genre, same as I’ve been, and still is, and will always be.

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