May 01, 1999 poetry by Michael F. Nyiri
In my birthday suit,
Naked to ambition, to creativity, to anticipation
At once I feel a rush of emotions, and no receptacle into which to pour them.
I am whole, I am resurgent
What can I say today?
The poetry has been AWOL for much too long.
The words want to come, but they get caught in the breeding area,
And seldom find the modicum of inspiration needed to exercise their birth.
My birth into realization was a long time ago.
The words used to spill from me at some sort of superhuman rate.
The words were in my head, in my hand, in my pen, and on the page.
There seems to be no filter.
Thoughts, memories, lessons, fears,
These are filled to bursting in my psyche, yet cannot be loosed in any reasonable manner
To find their way to the page.
Computers were going to help.
So now five years on from the word processor and the computer, the poetry finds its babysteps.
I dont think I felt as anxious at forty-five, maybe that was the last birthday,
And this is the first.
The poetry used to have a clear path from the mind to the page through the hand.
Now in the age of information one has to power up the computer.
What was supposed to be labor saving and a boon to creativity has become an excuse which sits in the other room.
The words are now subservient to the fonts.
The meaning is less important than the presentation.
The poetry exists.
It just doesnt come out and play that often.
When first confronted with the word processor document screen I didnt know when the pages ended.
I spent a large amount of time trying to juxtapose the pen and paper to the computer.
Now it seems simple to me.
Even as this document finds itself typed up on the screen,
The poetry is not inherent.
The function is all-inclusive, blocking clear thought.
Maybe poetry was never meant to be typed.
Maybe that would be a new type of poetry.
A poetry that is
Each day is but a byte of existence
A partition on our drive of life
Each feeling is but a conduit to eternity
A lifelesson learned
An answer to childhood musings.
Trouble is, I felt more in control during my childhood,
The childhood which ended at forty-five.
It took a long time.
Who am I writing to?
You were supposed to read me throughout the years.
Now, in my birthday suit I feel alone and naked.
You havent appeared yet,
much like the poetry seldom appears,
And then the poetry is only memory on a computer disk,
And not a tangible representation of artistic endeavor.
I want to exercise this boiling cauldron of creativity.
This is the age of information after all.
But I only ramble, in hopes that a theme will emerge.
Its been forty-six years of false starts.
Forty-six excuses hampering the creative muscle.
Forty-six ways of spelling procrastination.
I read the news and I am not surprised.
I am jaded to Millennial Madness.
I take longer showers in the morning,
A symbolic womb which I am reluctant to leave.
In my brain, my processor, my universal firewire it all seems so clear,
I want to reach out and touch you all.
Link to the original graphic poem
copyright 1999-2004 by Michael F. Nyiri