The Meaning behind my Wonderings 

I wrote my first poem at the age of thirteen. Then, of course, my perceptions of life were quite different and my poetry reflected the simple images of childhood. Two decades later, I can no longer say that I still fully retain the blissful ideals of childhood dreams. I leave that up to my children. The rhythms of life have bent and shaped my words to what they are today.  

Poetry to me is the willful act of committing one’s soul to paper. Much in the way a movie director shows us their vision and a painter produces a masterpiece from a blank canvas. The same way composers create symphonies from notes and instruments. All of these forms of art move us with their sway and convictions.  These raw, undeveloped essences of culture have one simple shared component; they require the collective efforts of a variety of sources and influences. A writer’s pen is as vital as a surgeon’s scalpel, and they both have the ability to create deep and lasting impressions.  

My poetry comes from life, both from personal experiences and from my interpretations of the people around me.  The random scrambling on the subway walls may indeed be scriptures of the prophets, just as Simon and Garfunkel proclaimed in the melodic strains of “The Sounds of Silence.” Let us not forget that what creates emotion truly is art. Art in the sense that it is reflects the ultimate culture and collective soul of the human race. Let it bend and move you, flow through your veins like water,  create questions, invoke anger; possibly even disgust,  and most of all, let it not forget to teach you to remember to live. Life is our most precious gift, for only through our lives can we create the memories that can never be forgotten.  


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