Wisdom of the Allurements

I love poetry, but I find myself engaged in various art forms e.g., jazz, music, literature. Much before the pandemic, a decade from now, I was becoming a wallflower, although my behavioral habits suggested otherwise; nights of house-partying, excessive drinking, giving attention to others and not myself led to an inevitable mental crash.

Around that time, I was new to jazz, poetry, and even music. At heart, I will always be a musician, but I continually notice that distinct art forms relate, how that illustrates my insatiable thirst for wisdom in various places, in various times.

I think I'm a potential polymath. But with all of these interests at irresistible demand, a personal life to consistently manage, and shouldering the struggle of freelancing, I find poetry keeps me grounded more than any art. She's like the love of my life.

Five years ago, I wrote a poem about the coming and going of life and how it's relatively the same with art. Much is said and done every day, corollaries and memories are imprinted, and before we know it, the sun and moon have changed posts.

This poem below portrays a chase of that middle space, the mystery and void where energy travels before it becomes tangible to us—the center.

Enjoy!

P.S. "sui generis" is Latin for unique; of its own kind.

Wisdom of The Allurements

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Behold the frequency

Its rhythm near;

The paintbrush speaks,

The liquid rubs the canvas:

sui generis

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As through Life’s fruits

Death worms vis-à-vis creations;

Songs end to renewal,

Music leans to diminished

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sui generis

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Epiphany is privilege—

Troubadour need not sing.

All dreams: an ode to phantasmagorias...

The poet knows this silence:

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sui generis