Salutations and Happy New Year to all !
P.S. In response to many of the comments I received regarding "The Mere of Things" late last school year, I have decided to clarify the situation quickly. My AP English teacher's comments in class were meant to be sarcastic and good-natured. He meant "Well, that was a C poem..." to be a joke. He and I had an excellent rapport and we still maintain that sense of humour to the present day. He is a good man and a great teacher. The point I was getting at was that I was disappointed that my work, by its very merit, was causing others to feel that their work was inferior. I was puzzled by their behaviour because there had been many times when I would be asked to beta read someone's essay or project, and I would find their work to be just as meritorious and worthwhile as just about anything I've ever written. I do not like to consider myself above or below others, but I do realise that, at my age, there are very few people who write with the same grain of maturity that I seem to do. Still, that does not mean that I was the only one capable of producing high quality literature! I never intended to come off as superior to anyone, nor did I intend to discourage anyone from sharing their poems with the class. I simply shared my work. I was very excited to hear what others in my class had come up with and I was disappointed by their reactions. They truly admired my piece and were evidently ashamed of their own, which saddened me. I believe that one's limits are marked by one's fears. I think that anyone who is not well-versed or well-read can learn to be so with enough effort and patience. After all, sentience, in my opinion, is not just about self-awareness and thought, as Descartes once postulated; it's much more than that. Sentience is aspiring to always be more than what we are but not less than who we are.
And on that note, I leave you with a new poem with which to ring in the new year by yours truly, Katharyn R. King. Enjoy.
20/20 And Still Blind"
By
Katharyn R. King
i dreamt one night that i saw your face,
yet your features were indistinct
how could i know it was you?
i know not.
but it was your face i dreamt,
that led me to follow after,
like a clambering, curious child.
what have you done to me?
in the throng of voices,
there is a serenity, a void.
i once called that void a haven, wherein we whispered to one another,
but our words, frosted by uncertainty,
deteriorated just like that,
as the breath expelled in the frigid air
on a night as cold as this.
and looking out at you, with 20/20 eyes,
i found myself, for the first time, blind,
and i wondered.
i wondered if i will ever feel your heart beating against my own,
if i will ever hear those precious, yet painful words uttered from your lips as you press them to my own
if you will ever even feel an ounce for me what you felt for she who broke your heart from the inside out and splintered your soul beyond repair
i am not she.
nor shall i ever be.
i am not the one who breaks
i am the one who is broken
i wonder if you are the one i have been looking for,
who will see the beauty in each piece of me, even in my fractured state,
i can be whole still.
if she will reach out to me, i will be reaching ever outward
waiting for she who will take my hand and lead me,
lead me, heart and eyes and all
to the very peace i seek.
