Pamela Leavey

words and pictures....

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Category: Poetry

What If A Tulip Sprang?

A new poem about what can grow in our heart space…

What If A Tulip Sprang? 

What if a tulip sprang,
from my heart? 
What if the tender sprouts
rose up from my heart
until they became leaves
that spread
within my heat space,
healing
my weary soul. 

Oh, those strong green leaves
rising from the Earth,
do they not form
the shape of
the bottom of
the heart.
They are the base
that holds up
the flower. 

The stem begins to grow. 
It is taller than
the leaves 
and on top of the stem
forms a bud. 
The bud begins to grow.
Soon that bud
Presents the faint hint
of color. 

Then the bud
begins to open. 
It forms fully into
a ripe tulip
rich with hues
of magenta, 
white and green. 
No ordinary tulip,
this one. 

This tulip
It unfolds all ruffly
like a skirt with a petticoat
and that is the crux
of its beauty. 
Each petal is a piece
of my heart. 
Each petal is a layer
of my life. 

Each petal 
is the soft,
sweet,
gentle space
I hold
In my heart. 
What if 
a tulip sprang
from my heart? 

If a tulip sprang
from my heart, 
it would surely signify
my heart is open,
and I too 
can unfold
like the ruffled tulip
that sprang up
from the Earth. 

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A Shadow of Myself

A Shadow of Myself

Here I stand, 
a shadow of myself,
looking for a familiar posture.

A shadow of myself 
peers through the lens 
of my camera

Looking for 
the woman
I used to be.

I, the me’s
I used to be,
strong and tenacious. 

Now I stand shakily 
on solid ground.
A shadow of myself. 

Strength replaced
by pain and worry.
I am but a shadow of myself. 

In my mind
my thoughts drift back
to the me’s I used to be.

Now I see shadows
where I was once
strong. 

Now I see shadows,
my tenacity
is gone. 

Here I stand, 
a shadow of myself,
looking for a familiar connection.

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Within Silence My Voice Dwells

Within silence my voice dwells.
My voice, it swirls around in my head,
and spins so swiftly,
it is hard to get it all
down on paper.
Most times the task seems
Insurmountable. 

I need to think like a river,
rapidly rushing by
and take pause to hear, 
write,
and speak
the words I hear
in silence. 

My mind is never silent.
it rushes like the river
to the sea. 
There is silence 
in the river
as it 
rushes by.

The river, 
always in motion,
it makes nary a sound
but within it
dwells power, a force
that flows like words
on paper. 
Merrimack River, Amesbury, Massachusetts

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Top Ten Reasons I am Not Writing

I have to say, I been thinking about this problem for quite some time now. This thick, cold steel wall of writer’s block that now seems wholly and completely impenetrable. As I ponder this problem yet again, today I have come up with the top ten reasons why I am not writing.

(more…)

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Poetry: Bird Highway

Bird Highway, by Pamela Leavey 

Bird highway 
with lots of 
fast food stops 
all around 
the house.
Cardinals
in pairs,
Sparrows
by the dozen.
Why lately
we’ve spotted
six Bluebirds
almost daily.
The Bluebirds 
are special.
They are
of course—
The Bluebird
of Happiness.
Look, look
at me,
said the bird
in the tree.
What if
you were 
like me
flying free.
Fill the suet,
stock the seed
we will all
be by to sing
our songs.
All different,
our colors. 
All vibrant
our feathers
as delicate
as a breeze.
If you build
a bird 
highway,
They will
make it
their regular
flyway.

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What Does Literature Do

When prompted, in my graduate studies class, Theory and Criticism of Literature, to write about why I turn to literature, I cited literature as a source to understand the human struggle. This question, “what does literature do” was posed after reading an excerpt of Plato‘s Republic. My response follows…

Plato

I believe that literature is capable of expanding our minds as it reaches into the depths of the soul of the reader and invites them in to view a glimpse of the human soul from the eyes of the writer and the characters who they write about. Furthermore, I contend that literature can be a great source of comfort and joy to readers and it can also shake a reader to their core causing the reader to feel discomfort, confusion and sadness. To further clarify my own beliefs and broaden my understanding of what literature does, I turned to Plato to examine his beliefs on the topic.

Plato is not terribly concerned with the human struggle. Indeed, the human struggle in literature is only a representation of that struggle in Plato’s opinion. He says in the Republic, Book X that “a representer knows nothing of value about the things he represents” (Plato p. 71). In this Plato asserts that a writer can not know anything about what they are writing about, because writing is a form of representation and “representation and truth are a considerable distance apart” (Plato p. 67).

I would tend to disagree with Plato on this, as I believe that writers are capable of translating their own experiences into literature whether it be poetry, fiction or nonfiction. In fact, in today’s world, which is so vastly different from Plato’s time, the memoir, which falls into the creative nonfiction genre, is a very popular form of literature. Yet, in Plato’s view, “a good poet must understand the issues he writes about, if his writing is to be successful, and that if he didn’t understand them, he wouldn’t be able to write about them” (Plato p. 67).

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