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Whispering Breeze over Poet's Grave

Updated on June 25, 2017
ValKaras profile image

Val is a life-long practically oriented student of effective emotional and attitudinal responses to the many challenges of life.

In His Dungeons of Solitude Strange Reality Gets Born
In His Dungeons of Solitude Strange Reality Gets Born

Lonely Sunsets

After every sunset has buried those unfulfilled promises of sunrise, comes the time again for a poet to make that heavy touchdown of his pen - to make the paper cry, laugh, sing, and otherwise echo the sentiment welling up from his chest.

Strange to himself, and even stranger to those around him, those words coming out with labor pains of a genius of heart never completely doing justice to that feeling. Like a sneeze that can't happen and merely announcing itself in a silly grimace, those verses are hopelessly following one another, with so many tears yet left uncried, so many laughs left unlaughed.

A loneliness creeps in, that unwanted but so loyal shadow that he seems to have been born with, now giving a fuel to his inspiration.

Gentle Magic of a Violin Adding Sweetness to His Every Sip of Wine
Gentle Magic of a Violin Adding Sweetness to His Every Sip of Wine

Inspirations Born out of Rude Realities

Between every two of those creative episodes, he merely goes through the motions of work, and all those other prosaic, or even crude necessities and chores of survival, often experiencing them as ordeals that he is not quite equipped to deal with.

Like a caterpillar impatiently waiting in its cocoon is he longing for that blessed moment of being revamped into a butterfly again, while dreaming of that lonely hour, that bottle of wine, that gentle violin nocturne in the background of the sound of his pen scraping against the paper, and maybe with a full moon sliced by his window shades to keep him a nonintrusive company.

From time to time he can't help but laugh at the great paradox of his life where that very prose aspect of it actually breeds the poetic one.

From Time to Time, the Heavy Load on His Poetic Heart Becomes Too Much
From Time to Time, the Heavy Load on His Poetic Heart Becomes Too Much

Wishing to Divorce His Muse

Not that he never got that sudden wish to escape from that orbiting around his muse. Not that he never got desperate while experiencing a mental block and glancing at that pile of crunched papers lying around the basket which seemed to reject every piece of that literary crap.

How many times he wished he could be like that neighbor of his, bringing in different giggling girls every time, maybe just loyal to a same brand of wine that's peeking from under his armpit. Then, how could he but not envy those simple-minded co-workers blessed with their ignorance, having fun over something shallow, while making him feel so phony for his clumsy attempts to join them.

Really, Could All that Be Merely a Refined Derivate of Testosterone?
Really, Could All that Be Merely a Refined Derivate of Testosterone?

That Unfriendly Freud

Yes, our bohemian poet would readily diagnose himself with something like a schizoid depressive living a virtual reality of his own make - if his poetry didn't feel so forgiving and reassuring, almost divine.

After all, he would rationalize, that was his artistic privilege to be a little outta whack. When in a particularly good mood - like when by accident kicking that empty wine bottle and scaring the cat - he could even go somewhat vain, giving himself a pat on the shoulder.

In some other moods, however, he might remember Freud's unfriendly theorizing about his poetry as stemming out of an unexpressed sexual desire and being an artistic sublimation of it. How can you not hate that Freud, that spoiler of those best moments of life!

Just Observing From a Similar World
Just Observing From a Similar World

Not One of Them - Merely Empathizing

So, what poet am I talking about? Does it matter? For there may be one in every city, village, farm, or penitentiary. Am I one? No, but being a spiritual dude of a free mind and an individualist thinking out-of-box, I may share with our poet that sense of separation from the mainstream population.

However, I am a way too prosaic type with my insistence on some almost cruel realities of human nature, and what I am putting on paper is oftentimes a challenge to a reader to take an honest look in the mirror.

Back in my distant past I did a few poems that were praised by friends as "deep" - but then I somehow grew out of it, and life certainly helped me with that, not to mention my mental discipline and a sort of a studious passion to get into the texture itself of the human nature, mine in particular.

To the World of Prosaic Human Shadows a Poet Is Dead
To the World of Prosaic Human Shadows a Poet Is Dead

The Sound of a Whispering Breeze

In a strictly metaphoric sense, our poet is "dead" to the realm of ordinary social roles. All until a gentle breeze over that grave whispers a call again for his resurrection, to seize the wings of the first butterfly hovering around and make it to a place in his restarting heart where he only feels at home.

Then it's hard to be a father, a husband, an employee, or a concerned citizen when his muse calls, when that whispering breeze is spelling the password into another realm. It's hard to be torn between two realities, each with its unique demands and claims on his mind and heart.

But then again, it's those very pains of prosaic existence that breed those inspirations. The world that he is so gladly escaping from is the one that gives all charm to the place of escape.

Just like a Butterfly Keeps Coming to the Flower for another Sip of Nectar, so Does a Poet to His Pad and Pen
Just like a Butterfly Keeps Coming to the Flower for another Sip of Nectar, so Does a Poet to His Pad and Pen

Resurrecting the Poetic Spirit

While most of the folks are spending their life with a relative ease of blending with its simplicity, to a poet nothing is simple, his soul painting his world into a myriad of colors and shapes. He could be said to keep resurrecting between every two prosaic episodes of sub-existence in which he is not expressing his only true identity.

I happen to know a very productive musical composer who must have put together hundreds of songs, hardly any ever published; but that's truly his life, his biggest passion. Poets, just like composers - especially of a bohemian type are a special breed of people. Nowhere else does the pathos of life mix with the joy of it like in the noble heart of a poet.

That Butchering Critic's Eye Makes Him Sympathize with His Literary Babies
That Butchering Critic's Eye Makes Him Sympathize with His Literary Babies

At Mercy of Public Critical Eye

And yet, some poets find enough inner flexibility to build a bridge connecting those two distinct worlds. Those are the ones who publicly succeed with their poetry, their name being mentioned with respect and admiration.

Nevertheless, sharing his poetic heart with the world is not without its secret pain. For now he is wondering - with how much genuine and deep sentiment are his literary babies being treated?

While he was writing for his eyes only, reading them provided a mirror of understanding. But now, are there some heartless critics out there who may sneer at his spilling his heart in those verses?

Is the world kind enough to at least try to understand? These and similar questions may haunt the accomplished poet, while he is picturing his delicate creations as merely a "stock on the culture market".

Suspended between two Worlds, Poet's Soul Is Praying for Another Inspiration
Suspended between two Worlds, Poet's Soul Is Praying for Another Inspiration

An Answered Prayer

Moments of nostalgic thoughts are bound to come, with those sweetly painful memories of times when his poetry used to be just a reflection of his soul being its own purpose, not a printed matter possibly butchered and bisected by some critical and non-empathic minds out there.

Funny, the muse is not visiting as often as she used to, and now he feels half-dead again, having betrayed those most sacred moments of intimate joy giving a noble meaning to those sleepless nights.

As he lays his tired body down, his poetic spirit empty like an empty shell on the beach splashed over by those salty tears of the tide, a silent prayer for one more resurrection moves his lips like a lullaby.

Then some hours may pass before those sheers move a little, disturbed by a gentle breeze just like the grey strands of his hair - awakening the poet inside, whispering another resurrection into his dream. For a dream is all that his delicate soul could possibly afford. A dream vivid just enough to replace reality. His, poet's version of it anyway.


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    • Jodah profile image

      John Hansen 

      23 months ago from Queensland Australia

      No, Val, I didn't think you would have denied my comment, now and then they just disappear into the ether without explaination. Possibly I neglected to hit the "post comment" button.

    • ValKaras profile imageAUTHOR

      Vladimir Karas 

      23 months ago from Canada

      Hi John - I hope you know that it's impossible that I would ever "deny" any of your comments, so it must have been one of those technical things that I have experienced myself a couple of times.

      Of course I did not "read your mind", and the closest to it would be the explanation that I have from ever had this inborn tendency to empathize, or "tune into" others' different mentalities and their intimate reality - in this case it was a poet. I don't take any credit for it, so I wouldn't brag about it - just being very happy that you, and possibly some others can somehow relate to my portraying of a poet.

      Please don't go hard on ALL of those who say that your poetry is "Deep" - because some of them really feel it "deeply", and then the word depicts their true experience. But of course, you are perfectly right about those others of a snobbish variety who like using phrases to ascribe to themselves a certain class and ability to interpret more than their capacity of experiencing is allowing them.

    • Jodah profile image

      John Hansen 

      23 months ago from Queensland Australia

      Hi again, Val. I did leave a comment here previously but it obviously didn't save. I have bookmarked this article as the best description anyone could give as to what it is like to be a poet and what they go through. It feels like you have read my mind. At times it feels like the trials and challenges of real life gets in the way of the desire to write poetry. That said it is life experience that provides the material and inspiration for poems. When someone says your poetry is "Deep" it usually means they don't understand it but want to appear knowledgable. Great hub.

    • ValKaras profile imageAUTHOR

      Vladimir Karas 

      23 months ago from Canada

      jgshorebird - I am deeply grateful for your comment.

    • jgshorebird profile image

      Jack Shorebird 

      23 months ago from Southeastern U.S.

      You took me 'elsewhere.' Thanks. To me that is what art is all about.

    • Aliswell profile image


      23 months ago from Iowa

      Alas, my 'poetic soul' has been soothed by your kind words, Val!

      I take no joy in seeking the solitude of mountain stone, but seek instead the stillness of that 'that is'

      Fear not my 'friend of friends' for in your prose and written muse, your gift of light to those of us who need it most, will shine forever!

    • ValKaras profile imageAUTHOR

      Vladimir Karas 

      23 months ago from Canada

      Allen, my good buddy, I don't have so many friends that I could afford to lose someone like you - so don't even think of that secluded life in the cabin. How will my friendly heart reach you if I don't know where you are. So, stay put and continue writing - for yourself or for those who will share your heart's expression with gratitude.

    • ValKaras profile imageAUTHOR

      Vladimir Karas 

      23 months ago from Canada

      Linda - I am happy you liked it. Now that I know your taste, all I have to do is wait until another inspiration like that will come to me. Thank you so much for your nice comment.

    • AliciaC profile image

      Linda Crampton 

      23 months ago from British Columbia, Canada

      This is a beautiful composition, Val. Out of all your hubs that I've read, this one is my favourite. Thank you for sharing your thoughts and ideas.

    • ValKaras profile imageAUTHOR

      Vladimir Karas 

      23 months ago from Canada

      Always exploring - Thank you for your nice comment. I don't happen to know Vincent Moore; as a matter of fact I hardly ever read poetry, dark or otherwise. It's great that you enjoy it to the extent of getting chills. I would assume that you are a lady with a big, romantic heart, and I certainly admire people like that.

    • ValKaras profile imageAUTHOR

      Vladimir Karas 

      23 months ago from Canada

      Wild Bill - As I respond to nice comments, I am painfully aware how hard it is to honestly express appreciation without sounding like one of those one-fit-all impersonal greeting cards. So I am going to leave it to your judgement while saying that words like yours are a true encouragement for me to continue writing. Thank you, Bill.

    • always exploring profile image

      Ruby Jean Richert 

      23 months ago from Southern Illinois

      I love the way you pen your thought's. You remind me of another Canadian, Vincent Moore. You can find him on Facebook. Sometimes his poetry is so dark it gives me chills, but I love everything he writes.

    • ValKaras profile imageAUTHOR

      Vladimir Karas 

      23 months ago from Canada

      Rachel L Alba - I am happy to see that my hub helped you to tune into the spirit of a poet. As for myself not being a poet either - I always feel this challenge of intuitively empathizing with different mentalities, trying to reach into their intimate world of thoughts, feelings, and attitudes. I find it emotionally rewarding to expand my awareness over to someone else's reality. - Thank you for your nice comment. - Val.

    • ValKaras profile imageAUTHOR

      Vladimir Karas 

      23 months ago from Canada

      Lela, I am sorry to see that you are taking the election farce so personally. We can't live a nation's life, only ours, and to live it well we have to focus on those issues over which we may have some control. Would you agree?

      Not that it matters much, but just to remind you that your politically minded comment has absolutely nothing to do with the hub above. Be well.

    • Aliswell profile image


      23 months ago from Iowa


      The fear I have, as you describe when the poet writes for his eyes only.. Is truly that I may someday give up all this superfluous crap I now call my Life, and move into that hermit cabin high in the Rockies with nothing but time and copious amounts of pen and paper to occupy and fulfill my purpose?

    • profile image

      Wild Bill 

      23 months ago


      That was beautifully written. I could feel the despair of the poet as he toiled over his thankless work!

      As for you Austinstar,

      Where did this political rant come from??? This man wrote a beautiful piece of work and all you could think of was to make negative political comments? My advice would be to meditate and focus on reading positive news instead of going to forums and picking fights.

    • Rachel L Alba profile image

      Rachel L Alba 

      23 months ago from Every Day Cooking and Baking

      Hi Val, I can't pretend to know what a poet goes through, since I am not a poet, but you describe so well that I almost feel like one. It's good to know that in the end an inspiration does occur. Thanks for sharing your thoughts.

      Blessings to you. Keep it up.

    • Austinstar profile image


      23 months ago from Somewhere in the universe

      I am having serious trouble this election season - the reason? People! The number of people believing in all the hype, lies, deceptions, conspiracy theories, conjecture and just plain stupidity/willful ignorance.

      I do not understand why people cannot research the issues that they actually care about and make their own decisions. Why must it be their hair styles? Holy crap on a cracker.

      Listening to the continuous lies is giving me a headache and a heartache for this country.

      Hillary is by far the best qualified person running for the office of president. No one else even comes close.

      Why some people cannot see this and continue to believe in "change" - whatever that is, just astounds me.

      People believe that Hillary wants to eliminate the 2nd amendment - Here's a CLUE - she can't, no president can.

      Trump does not, and will not try to abide by the constitution. He has never even read it. That is clear from the way he speaks.


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