A guitarist picks up his guitar, picks a few notes, and strums a few chords, to loosen his fingers, to listen, to feel, to appreciate where he is at. After many strokes, music fills the mind, a few chords at a time. If there is a melody, a pleasant sound, even of discord, that might be the beginning of something greater that an idle guitar sitting in some corner, close, but at a great distance from creativity.
Creativity only comes with activity. One may have a "vision" of a beautiful sculpture, be it in clay, granite, marble, metal or wood. It might be of great size. It might be positioned in a park site and there to be seen by many from whom a few positive feelings might be generated, the extension of the feelings, interests, ideas and even ideals of the creator. Even if far removed from the original creative image, without any understanding of the why, a viewer might find the starting point of thought, of desire to create in any media available.
Creativity frequently comes from sources unknown and unrecognized. The loss to the self and the world comes when one hides from self and from others that which is deep within the self, forms of identity, of pleasure that remain hidden or dormant in semi-reverie, never to come out in the open where others might appreciate. Such a loss, never known to all, but a loss for the great opportunity was there, lost because it was not fulfilled. How many losses has the world experienced? There have been so many, unrecorded, never understood for non-exposure is nothingness. What creative genius responses from the self to the world have not seen the light of day, only being exposed to the creative imagination of the individual?
Loss and Lost
What is not shared is lost.
What is shared, always there.
In memory, on canvas, in print.
In stone or metal cast.
If not forever, at least for the now.
Ever present in the memory,
Of those who choose,
To see, to think,
To feel, to understand.
What is lost to the world,
What is lost to the self
The images many,
From imagination bright,
With ideas and ideals,
With emotions and love.
That which is not shared is lost.
Lost in a vacuum of nothingness,
Lost in the heights and depths,
Lost where loss means nothing,
But the emptiness of life,
The death non-deserved,
Buried in a heap of nothingness.
The loss of the lost.
© 2007 by Lou Reeves
Labels: poetry
