Adding it Up
So how is this my fault?
Somebody could have said
something.
Like I’m supposed to get
a clue
from the slackjaws,
gawking with doll’s eyes
slowly registering, but never
quite totaling it all up.
Never with the simple
presence
to just once -
just once -
hit the
equals key.
Never the simple
courtesy of tearing
the printed receipt off
and handing it to me.
“There.”
Thanks,
I would have said,
with my doll’s eyes,
Thanks.
.
Some one is playing poetry. What do I get if I win?
Yep, you got that right. “Playing†is about the extent of it, I’m afraid.
I’m not sure there’s much to win, but how about giving it a go anyway, Juggernaut, and posting some of your work here?
I’d like to see it.
rainey,
But if it ever added up, what would we do with it? 
The impetus behind it all is that the pieces never quite add up to one. Isn’t that what keeps us getting out of bed in the morning? At least Sysyphus had a job to do…
I will forgive your calling my poetry work because you have not seen me work. I can’t get poetry to the point, and no one has time to dawdle. Given a choice, I always cover my style with substance rather than my substance with style. So you may see less of my poetry and think less of it too. When I have no where to go I will take the crooked path, and until that day, I’ll speak clearly.
You should take the time to dawdle, Juggernaut. The beauty is in the dawdling.
Tentative says it rather nicely above.
I’ve always appreciated the Muses encouraging us to muse…
I started out dawdling. I had nothing to say and time to say it. I still write an odd poem; usually in response to a poem, and it is usually done nearly as quickly as concieved. But, poetry is usually not my world. My world is the moral world, and I am in it; but I objectivize it; while poetry is like a carnival mirror that points at me the harder I point at it. My poetry is all about me. But I am not all about me, so all about me does not appeal to me in my soul. That does not mean you are off the hook. If I blast you with a poetical broadside, you still have to say ouch.
Juggernaut,
But poetry is always about “me”. As one of my favorite poet says, “The essential philosopher’s man, the man who in a million diamonds, sums us up.”
I’m not sure what your “moral†world is but, regardless, I’m not seeing where these worlds are exclusive to one another. Nor am I seeing where either is to be “objectivized,†as if that is possible. The world is a carnival mirror. The world is poetry. To your point earlier, you do, in fact, have nowhere to go. And it’s all a “crooked path.â€
This is not a lament. Far from it, in fact. This is a recognition that Creativity is her own end.
Whoever said it was gonna be easy?
Then again, a “There” is sometimes nice.
Ya’ll just knock yourselves out. I’ll do it with a reason or without and won’t for the same. Best wishes.
If I don’t understand this conversation does it mean I’m not a poet?
Anyway, another nice poem Rainey.
Sorry to break it to you, but you are not a poet. Poetry is a door, but you are not a dog; so if you want to be on the other side of it you have the ticket in your hand. Don’t wait for your master. Be masterful.
I knew it. 
anon,
Don’t confuse incomprehensible trash talk for a judgement call. Stay your own course.
Don’t know. I like the sounds of Rainey’s and Juggernaut’s words. I’m not so poetic.
If you write poetry you are a poet. If you live poetry you are a human being. Don’t stop living to start writing.
Juggernaut,
And where and in what rule book does it say that to write poetry precludes living? The last time I checked, introspection was still considered a valid life experience. All symbolism is abstraction, and we all participate.
So tell me, did you stop living when you wrote this?
No anon, not at all. It just means that there are some guys jabbering away, and one or more of them is doing so in a way that is not resonating with you. But there are other ways. There are always other ways. Poetry is a million voices. One of them is yours, anon. 