‘I Sing the Volcano Electric (Poetic)’
(written in an unedited flow of creative eruption – broken into 9 parts; with respect to the poetic work of the Whitman classic)
I sing the volcano electric,
These crowded thoughts I love,
surround me as I surround them,
They will not let me go till I go along with them, melded within my viscous mind,
Shall I turn them ’round, subjective to the variations of my shape-shifting soul?
How may I describe these smoldering embers of inspiration that consume me? Smothering me in all-consuming excitation,
free-formed masses of multi-tasking mindedness?
Was I doubted by others as much as myself, as though these ramblings of my mind-borne contortions cannot be concealed?
Consider these visceral masses of thinking that dare to take shape outward; not bound,
as if nailed in and held tight.
As each breath I spend could allow me the choice to breathe one moment as the urge does insist?
Yet these many silent exaltations will surely be confined once more to my rib-encumbered gallow of lungful urges.
Do not exhale. Splay my chest, compress inward deep to fathoms darkened by selfless repression.
Bloat my soul; counting the pulsations of my heart as conjoined to this soul that is mine alone, to spew with an expanse of thoughts.
Foolish to hold inside,
Wanting to cast into some kind of form, as each thought takes shape.
Not spewed out to be as so unseen on its discourse as any other gasps I have released
— Revealing of life’s blows.
What should become of such punishments of my endeavors not sought?
Not so much, as I did not seek.
Marked by scarred stretches of my imagination
— Quiet desperation.
This to is known. More often.
As I take so many steps along this way,
Beyond the shear exertion of my own flexor and moral fibers.
Bounded by myself; yet all the while I also bounded past my self; as always.
And all to make longer strides ahead of the ashen shadows I might have cast even into night.
Always placing each step forward,
Limbs flung fast as if kneed to rally my soul’s desiring,
Self-denial surely a chosen competitor,
Dueling for the crown of my ecstasy.
Rather, may I be consumed as a wick soaked in the ferment of imaginative fuels for thought dripping in readily conspired condensates. As my determined steps glide recklessly from under me; rendered frictionless upon the expelling of inner essences, hastily wrung out of my own convictions. Evaporation is too passive to consider. Inspired to strike the final matchstick tucked deep within my own pockets. A flicker: forced to flames. Then stoked with aged kindlings I had gathered so often on my excursions through obscured footpaths of such varying direction I had once trod, into dreams. Visions I found that no compass could point to, nor dictate a common direction. Other excursions into moss-thickened thickets of stacking boughs and brambles of brain-bent solo sermonizing, fire and brimstone plumes raised hot with jagged shards of pine wooded pondering piled ever higher into a cast iron stove of boilerplate desires. Up in smoke; once again, do not inhale. Let it all out.
Heated discussions to myself emanate a resonance of an inevitable pop and snap of viscid resins to be revealed within the fibrous splinters of my mind. Upward and out these sparks sling into the sooted flue shafts of single-mindedness; as these embers dance unseen into darkness so contained to soon dwindle into obscurity themselves, yet of having been of matter.
Erratic glimmers of restless insight and inspirations flung free and forgotten — So often. Embers glow and often lift beyond the gravity of their grounded source. Illuminate the wafts of billowed puffs rising as a prayer might serve to cast shadows into my subconscious wants of each night revealing thoughts running cold.
So cold; into charcoaled nights, pitch black smudges of dreams differed.
Odorous evidence lingering from the banal burning of mindful sparks of spontaneous combustions. This smoke penetrates and clings to me.
My vision clouded over as the face of the moon might be. Journeys dark leading to the faintest light, any speck within insipid murk surely navigated as would be a flight to the Sun.
The creative spark ignites so immensely that its warmth intensifies more as if tightly vented and blown upon the bellows of my own beliefs. Convinced by the deja vu of dreams repeated night to day, infinite rewinding and repeatedly replayed as the recovery of my senses twirl into heaps and spirals of inspired cranial contortions. Brainy grey matter.
Dangling wisps of heart-felt urges, surges to seek a surface,
A coming to air, to breath once
Of uncapped release
Clotted blobbing, spurting of essences.
Varied with hues beyond any eye could see or ear could hear; throbbing.
Flowing reddened crimson going, pulsations pause; to ponder… past blues enfolded, eroded and returning ever inward to the tides of my heated heart; my mind unplugged, shapes (silhouette) my soul to verses and rhymes I have yet to define: to create, my own poetic procreation: waits.
~ an EWK Poe’em ©2016 EWK
(inspired by my own INFJ creative flow)
// Reference of my inspiration:
Poem: ‘I Sing the Body Electric’
Publication: ‘Leaves of Grass’; 1855/1867
By: Walt Whitman
/// ‘I Sing the Volcano Electric (Poetic)’
Refers to my creative senses, processes and contemplations. Poetic/creative expression is experiential and entirely engrossing to the sensations of emotional observations. Quite often its effects involve experimenting with this ever-shifting energy with enough personal self-awareness and self-esteem to bring elements of the events to form. Perhaps, as always an infinite work-in-progress. ~ Eric