Always in Beauty By Liz Kelso
The poems I read are breathtaking and ethereal; like Longfellow writing about Chaucerâ€™s song. I sit down to write, but before long, doubt meanders along the rivers in my brain. They flow along at this gentle pace until, it finds the mouth of the waterfall. My eyes, cheeks and paper damp with my efforts. I am not Emerson; his words float on an eternal transcendental plane? I fail at beauty because my eyes fall on gray and brown, concrete and asphalt. They fall on river muck and broken piers of dead commerce. I can find a piece of peace in the center of existence. Butterflies and bloom envelop me from all angles. I breathe it in and commit it to memory, but by the time I get them home, the words have traveled downstream. I want to write about soft sunlit rays poking through the dainty holes of my lace curtain, but the rattle of the garbage truck and the sirenâ€”rising and falling and rising again, make it all seem frivolous. The sunlight that falls on my hard wood floor is not as beautiful as the sunlight that falls on Hyacinth. I cannot smell its beauty. I cannot taste the pink, purple and white gift that God made for those with secret senses. Here I sit, with pen in hand and stare out at the world through a piece of Chantilly. Wading in a wordless reality. Can it be as effortless as the old masters would have us believe? Thoreau dug deep and found his God on a nib, while across the vast sky, three sisters wrote as men. But not meâ€”not I. Here I sit, with a click-click of the push button on my forehead to the tune of 20
Third issue of Voice of Eve women's poetry magazine.