The Owl King’s Daughter
Constructed in Verse
She poured her heart out on paper, which left her so empty inside.
Why this necessity, this imperative to find the words and speak
out loud to blank pages, to ears that don’t hear?
The few that might read her, would they ever understand
that’s what she was doing?
Or, would they just hear gibberish, a cocktail napkin of unmatched words
like odd socks one would never wear in public?
Well, she had explained it before, but who really listens anymore?
Who takes the time to even read, let alone understand a poetic intention?
Who has the patience to understand her?
To realize that when a poet breaks her heart
wide open for all to see,
the only real cure and salve, the needle and thread, the recovery bed,
is to write write write her poetry.
When her heart cracked open wide..she fled, climbing
ascending stairs higher and higher.
She shunned the sun and the daylight sounds,
for a small attic room she made dark as night
She was now in her tower,
her blood spilling on the floor..
mopping it up with paper, filling her pen with it, she wrote..
Her tragedy converted into alchemy; poetry was born again!
From disillusionment and pain; a mess of tangled thoughts in red,
was her own special way back to sane.
Poetry was not her idle pastime, or her dice and card game; poetry defined her.
She was constructed in verse, and healed in cinquians,,
If you knew just a little bit of what her poems were saying,
you could be her savior, her knight of knights and her brave saint…
and…. there is a good chance you would probably be a poet.
Karima Hoisan
June 29, 2020
Costa Rica
En Español
Construida en Verso
Ella vertió su corazón en papel, lo que la dejó tan vacía por dentro.
Por qué esta necesidad, este imperativo de encontrar las palabras y hablar
en voz alta a páginas en blanco, a oídos que no oyen?
Los pocos que podrían leerla, ¿alguna vez lo entenderían,,,
que eso es lo que estaba haciendo?
O, ¿escucharían simplemente galimatías, una servilleta de cóctel de palabras inigualables
como calcetines disparejos, que uno nunca usaría en público?
Bueno, ya lo había explicado antes, pero ¿quién realmente escucha hoy día?
¿Quién se toma el tiempo de leer, y mucho menos entender una intención poética?
¿Quién tiene la paciencia para entenderla?
Darse cuenta de que cuando un poeta le rompe el corazón
abierto para que todos lo vean,
el único remedio y ungüento real, la aguja y el hilo, el lecho de recuperación,
es escribir escribir escribir su poesía.
Cuando su corazón se abrió de par en par … huyó, trepando
escaleras ascendentes cada vez más altas.
Ella evitó el sol y la luz y los sonidos del día,
para una pequeña habitación en el ático que oscureció como la noche
Ella estaba ahora en su torre,
su sangre derramándose en el piso …
limpiando con papel, llenando su bolígrafo con ella, escribió …
Su tragedia se convirtió en alquimia; ¡La poesía nació de nuevo!
De desilusión y dolor; un lío de pensamientos enredados en rojo,
era su propio camino especial de regreso a la cordura.
La poesía no era su pasatiempo ocioso, ni su juego de dados y cartas; la poesía la definió.
Fue construida en verso y sanada en cinquain.
Si supieras un poco de lo que decían sus poemas,
podrías ser su salvador, su caballero de caballeros y su valiente santo …
y … hay muchas posibilidades de que también serías un poeta.
Karima Hoisan
29, de Junio 2020
Costa Rica
Digital Rabbit Hole 
Lovely and evocative! What it must be like to spill poetry in blood like that, to make a path back to sanity. You poets!
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We poets have a challenge and a gift I think but then again you writers do too:) In any case sensitivity is better when you have poetry as a channel to heal and learn and then share with others.. All poets hope that someone will read them and connect to them..I think I can make that blanket generality:) As I once said in a poem (of all places!)
“Although it sounds contradictory, it’s not that important to see me,
In order to believe in me, and know and touch and even love me.
If you can read and understand my lines, than you hear who I am ,
When you listen, my words will paint a path, that let’s us dream together”.
Thank you Dale for taking the time to comment on this little thought.
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Muchas gracias por presentar estos versos. Me encanta leer tus poemas en español. Estoy encantado de estar aquí. Que tengas un hermoso primer día de julio. Besos. 🌺💕💐🧜🏼
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Con mucho gusto Sabiscuit, y igual:) estoy disfrutando tus palabras, tus posts y ideas, muy tópicos y bien escritos:) Mucho gusto en conocerte y de veras (aunque parece mentira) Felîz Julio!:)
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🌺❤️💚🧚🏽💕🧜🏼Gracias por tus hermosas palabras.
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Con mucho gusto mi amigo nuevo:)
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Wow! Just stunning, Karima.
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Karima~ I believe this solidifies who you are as a poet, a writer of verse and prose:
“She was now in her tower,
her blood spilling on the floor..
mopping it up with paper, filling her pen with it, she wrote..
Her tragedy converted into alchemy; poetry was born again!
From disillusionment and pain; a mess of tangled thoughts in red,
was her own special way back to sane.
Poetry was not her idle pastime, or her dice and card game; poetry defined her.”
Only a true writer would grasp the intensity of your deeply rooted meaning. Always must we suffer in order to produce great works. Blessings, my friend.
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Thank you Lance, I knew you would understand….only a writer/poet might grasp what I am saying here..and you did! Just not any writer or poet either, someone with his or her own depth, their well of suffering and their alchemy to change it into art, poetry, literature. We poets are really so lucky..to have poetry..otherwise , we could have pills for depression, electro-shocks for our visions, and well, we might even have all that too, but we also have poetry..It is a part of us.. the need to write it..even if no one is listening…. and it does help!
Our poetry, although very different in style and even theme, is written in a language that we both can understand..That is a connection that happens rarely:) Thank you.
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Always a very honored pleasure, Karima. Thank you- this sheltering in and pandemic have taken a toll on my nerves, but feel my poetry has improved. Suffering seems to bring out the best in some, while others succumb to the toils of every day life. Yes, we are extremely lucky. If you have poetry flowing through your veins, you’re very fortunate.
Kindred spirits, my dear poet. It is my very sincere pleasure!
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Yes, and how nice to meet another kindred poetic spirit…It’s a gift:)
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You are speaking for many great writers here. Yourself included of course. All of them would say that your words ring so true. Jack London, when asked about writing said, “You can not wait for inspiration, you have to go after it with a club.” You say it more eloquently in this piece than our dear Jack,
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`Thank you Hoyt..I actually say something very similar in meaning .. because Life has taught me this truth” You don’t need an idea to create…ideas come…all you need to do is start.” In poetry this is most certainly true for me.. What would I do without your appreciation and your enthusiasm for my poetry? Smiles… You are such a support in all I do:)
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Lovely metaphors! ❤
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Ana, thank you so much for visiting my blog and I am glad you liked this metaphoric poem..sort of my auto-biography:)
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El alma de la poesía descrita en tan pocos párrafos, pues su inmensidad es infinita y tu inspiración es lumbre en la tiniebla. Maravillosos versos, somos poetas!!!
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Muchas gracias Christian por tu comentario, y bienvenido a mi blog! Este poema en particular, fue escrito para poetas..no hay duda, que tu eres uno:) Gracias por conectarse con mis palabras..Estoy muy agradecida..
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Es un placer empezar a leerte e igualmente bienvenida a este humilde espacio 📖🌹
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