Two Years of Words Much Like Poetry
Amazingly, for me, the two year anniversary of Words Much Like Poetry is a few short weeks away. Laughably, at the time I began this blog, I knew nothing of blogging and were it not for my cousin, I would likely still be ignorant of it. So, with her guidance and encouragement Words Much Like Poetry came into being.
Self-evolution is a wholly necessary, unavoidable fact of life and as I evolved the blog evolved—where I'm concerned the evolution was a marked moving from hiding behind the pseudonym Gladys Moore to the use of my real name, moving from the simplistic introspection of a five year long relationship gone bad into far more riotous concepts and imagery, to conceiving the true course I wish to chart for Words Much Like Poetry. However, I'll be keeping mum about what my goal is for the blog. There are a great many things that need to be done to accomplish that goal and regrettably I'm the superstitious sort. I believe it entirely possible to jinx a thing by speaking of it before it is fully realized. :)
In the coming weeks, reader, expect to see some of my and Antony's favorite poems being re-posted within article-like entries (I know how hard it can be to read through an ever growing list of posts and there are some poems that I feel shouldn't be overlooked).
Also, as the year itself draws towards its close, I would like to say a resounding "Thank you and happy holidays!" to all of our readers and followers. As well, I'd like to say thank you to Antony for agreeing to co-author this blog with me. Words Much Like Poetry would not be what it is now without you. Last, but certainly not least, thank you to our guest authors. I am honored that you chose us as a forum for your work.
Blessings,
Mũhu
P.S. We have a new writer on our team. I give you the Merovingian.
My stomach starts to coil in knots whenever I think of betraying the story of my life and placing it upon a public medium or forum where all those who care to read it may read it.
I find poetry safer, much less stark than prose. Metaphor allows for obscurity, veiled and hinted meanings that are open to speculation and conclusion but remain unconfirmed.
I begin to wonder, though, if I've lost something in my strides toward more complex verse. Do grief and misery become things lessened by lack of proper exposition? I hope not, for the exorcism of words is without use then, and I've failed to find relief in the telling.
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