Open Eyes Closed Minds


Should I hide
because your eyes
are not pleased by my presence?


Should I not be,
for your
very own convenience?


Is it your eyes
that decide
what is beautiful to me?
Your vision is only a perception
with the deception
of thoughts forehand.
Surely,
you do not know of things
yet
to come.
How is it so
that you certainly
know

Me?

Does my appearance
suggest
the total of me?

Of course not,
"I"
am within,
shielded
from your eyes alone.
My appearance
is your illusion
completely eluding you
from the total of me.

No comments at all on this one?

"Should I not be,
for your
very own convenience?"

I love the poem in general, and those lines in particular. "Should I not be...?" I have wondered this so much myself, if this is what people think (I have been a-roaming again just now, and I do think some think this of me, that I should not be!).

We are, like Al Gore's movie, "An Inconvenient Truth," inconvenient truths. I, for one, enjoy being inconvenient; I think we poets are called to be inconvenient, are inevitably so. We are catalytic, like my catalytic Cousin Greg, the Tasmanian Devil (as I sometimes call him); we are irritants for progress, agents of change. Paradoxically, we struggle for peace.

Don't worry about the comments, my friend; we have Euros and Indians, Ozzies and Brits, and all sorts of people in all sorts of places; many of them are asleep, and the ones in the States might well be at the beach. I was minding other sites, but here I am now, saying thank you for this good strong poem. I like how you examine external appearances and how judgments are made on the basis of these, whether books by their covers or their authors by their clothes, their tats or their piercings. We've all been judged, and it sucks. I want to read your poem over several times; I usually read everything several times before saying anything, for fear of saying something stupid, but often I go ahead and say something stupid anyway (like now, probably, because I'm getting tired). A poem is a thing-in-itself which says what it says and is hard to argue with or deconstruct; I always feel like I'm tearing the wings off a butterfly, which makes me not so good at moderating; fortunately we have those here who are better at it. But mostly it is our custom just to read and understand and savor what is shared.

I think you're a good poet, and I think this is a good and wise poem; it rings true to me, as you do. I find both poem and poet to be genuine, which is terribly important to poetry.

I'm really glad you are here.

I've been writing all night, and making mischief on poetry websites, and have gotten really tired; I think I might be sleeping awhile now.

Respect and solidarity,

+Stevie

Thanks...
You just saved my life this crazy afternoon.

fine poem.

g`day Orion Mardi, and welcome, to name the cord was important for some, so we reached for a word and the word was ooommm. i digress but i am intrigued by your name. mythological giant, equatorial constellation, or perhaps a powerful counter strike player, it matters not…..the name, but the content, much the same as this excellent verse which speaks to me of the blindness of our eyes to inner beauty, and the false icons which predict and pre judge our existence, neatly packaged in an eight by twenty, glossy color photo. well done. keep well and take care. greg