My Purpose…

Tree in Silhouette in Autumn

 

Writing has become a sanctuary of peace and an inviting home for self-reconciliation through the years. As I have matured, I’ve focused on literary craftsmanship, honing my technique, mirroring the timeless styles of classic poets/authors, and practicing earnest absorption of all instructional materials at my disposal. My journeying forays into the art of writing quickly transcended the dilettante’s realm of “pastime” into necessity. The more I learn of this craft, the more I perceive how little I know, which thrills me to no end because what I do know is that the way to mastery will never cease its winding years. Matriculating through the developmental process is the real joy! Personally, I believe writing is a transliteration of our unconscious yet innate intelligence’s prodding and it has a way of cathartically channeling obstructions to that higher spiritual intelligence outward and onto the page. With the creative use of our collective mechanisms for linguistic expression, not only can writing heal and enrich our own selves but can, by extension, commune with the humanity in other selves as well. In conclusion, this is the purpose of my blog: to journey into my own largely undiscovered wilderness, account for what things I find there, as inventively as I know how note those things upon my notepad, and then share my findings in efforts to map the vast country of self, to chart the vast dimensions of human experience.

“Know of power if unknown to love, unknow the lack thereof, And you’re nothing, no nothing less than nor above, limitless.”  —  Asha Gowan

I am very interested in connecting with other writers and would be honored to receive any sort of constructive criticisms. Take a look at the various types of writing (free verse poetry, journal entries, essays, etc.) on my blog page, and feel free to leave a comment.

8 comments on “My Purpose…

  1. dougstuber says:

    Paradelle for James

    Routine runs to laugh behind the flake-barked tree.
    Routine runs to laugh behind the flake-barked tree.
    Whitey, my son’s dog, darts to freedom, breaks his heart.
    Whitey, my son’s dog, darts to freedom, breaks his heart.
    Whitey barked “freedom,” breaks routine, the darts flake.
    My son’s laugh, his heart behind, runs to the dog tree.
    Thick lips expect extra attention when cold weather arrives.
    Thick lips expect extra attention when cold weather arrives.
    He is so pure he gets awards that proclaim “angelic.”
    He is so pure he gets awards that proclaim “angelic.”
    Angelic lips proclaim extra weather. He arrives, gets attention.
    That cold, so thick: expect awards when he is pure.
    He always asks questions that stimulate even this old mind.
    He always asks questions that stimulate even this old mind.
    When spring arrives we throw balls, talk sports, eat strawberries.
    When spring arrives we throw balls, talk sports, eat strawberries.
    Always stimulate balls that mind strawberries. This spring, when
    He asks, throw old questions, mind sports, talk, even eat.
    He runs, asks routine questions, gets extra freedom, balls behind
    Strawberries’ pure lips. Expect to laugh, Whitey to stimulate
    Spring to sports. The flake always arrives. This old dog barked.
    Cold weather breaks his heart, thick mind darts, my
    Son’s always angelic. Proclaim when tree awards attention.
    When we throw, talk, eat, he is so that, he even that.

  2. ariel says:

    so far i’ve read 4 of your poems ans it is a scintillatiing fresh voice that props out from such fertile ground.amazing, i am going to read further, thank you for sharing.

  3. Wallace McLendon says:

    When I finish reading an Asha Gowan piece, I feel like I have just listened to a symphony that falls somewhere between Beethoven’s Ninth and Aaron Copland’s Appalachian Spring.

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