Open to Interpretation

It bothers me when people insist on taking too much time to describe exactly why they had to paint, write, take a photo of, or compose a particular piece of art.

Wait for someone to ask. That's how you determine whether or not they actual give a shit. I believe that the longer it takes to describe something will ultimately reflect how little your audience will know, or care to know, about the subject matter. Let the work speak for itself. We sit in on poetry readings because we want to shut the world out for a moment and listen to what someone has to share. We do the same thing at galleries and concerts.

I went to a reading at one of my favorite bookstores at the beginning of this month and there was an open mic. Now, I'm all for reading one or two when the opportunity arises because I've only been featured four times since I moved to the area (if you run a poetry event and need a featured reader, feel free to ask [wink, wink]). However, there is always the chance that a few "unique" individuals will show up.

One person in particular was an older gentleman that had self-published a book of poems and insisted on telling us about how he chose the pictures, and how he laid out his book to include descriptions of what inspired him to write the poems.

Honestly, I don't agree with it. But it's not my place to twist your arm if I don't agree with your shenanigans. But then, humble reader, this guy decided to read the descriptions, which were longer than the poems, and then the poetry, which was, in my opinion, pretty bad. They were "bad" because they were grocery lists, not poetry. There was a list of fruits and vegetables in one poem, and a list of emotions in another. And the poems were long. Way too long. Like having a one-sided conversation with an attention starved narcissist long (been there, done that).

I know he will never read this post, but I still would like to offer him this example. Please pay attention to how I introduce one of my own poems, and then, allow the audience to interpret it for themselves.

"I had a dream about Salvador Dali last night. This is what I wrote the following morning when I woke up."

Dali's Wasteland

From rooms 

longing for roses

and yerba mate 

we wait patiently

for miracles.

Welcoming deception

like a new lover 

who has never seen the price paid

for affection

before tonight. 

I dreamt about melting clocks

on sweat slicked sheets

in June heat

as they dripped time

like mercury in retrograde.

I dreamt about 

the trees and platforms that held them.

And about the weight of the world 

that could not.

You. Were. Drugs.

Sending correspondence

from life's gentle circus,

as a ship with butterfly sails

moved gracefully away

on waters 

that were too calm

to believe

in reincarnation.

I. Am. Not.

Chanting

as I navigate the dessert landscape 

back to reality 

because the one clock that the heat

could not kill 

sounded its electric sting.

The ship reached eternity,

and consciousness met the dawn

like a fresh canvas

awaiting the approval

of life. 

________________________________________

What are your thoughts?

I'm here if you are in need of a fistfight. Or want to grab a drink sometime.

Cheers,

~Torres