PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

To the child who experiences: To the child who experiences some sort of trauma, it is neither trivial, nor common to many, nor any of the other labels that we adults put on it.  To the child whose life experience is in no way equal to an adults', each trauma is as new as if it happened for the very first time to the very first person.  The child has not analogue with which to measure or define the trauma; and even a second or third trauma, or whatever number it is, seems like a first because it is so specific to that child's circumstances.  When, at a family reunion, I, a nine year old, was rejected by my sixteen year old cousin (whom I dearly loved) from playing badminton with her, I wept hot tears---not because I cared that much for the gane, but because of her somewhat abrupt rejection of me (previously, she had been very kind and gracious to me).  When I was almost eleven, and found out, early one weekend morning, that the great actor, Boris Karloff, had died in a London hospital, I wept profusely.  I even wept at school, and my classmates in fifth grade made a mockery of that.  I knew in my head that people died all the time; but, in my heart, Karloff's death affected me as if it were the first ever death.      Then, from sixth through tenth grade, the bullying I experienced---sometimes with very minor physical assault---was not unique in our school; several people like me, including one of my closest friends, were bullied because of how we looked, what we were called (nerds, dweebs, faggotts), and even because our grades were higher than those of the bullies who tormented us.  Even then, although I knew far better that it happened all the time, and everywhere, it still seemed that I faced it entirely alone.  My parents either dismissed the concern, or believed I brought it upon myself; the school administrators were entirely indifferent to it.       You obviously understand what Little Evan had to endure.  Too many people do not; to many dismiss it as imaginary, or as a made-up complain to deflect attention from something else.  Today, while writing this, I began to wonder if the reason I studied to many poets of the past, and almost no contemporary poets, was because I feared to lose someone to whose living work and accomplishment I might become attached.  Christian Faith would have assisted with this, but that did not come to me in the soul-sustaining way until 1994, when I was already thirty-five.         I applaud this series that you have been building and expanding, and I am certain---very, very certain---that it will help many as much as it has helped me.

Volcano Vibrate: Made my own observations in reading this with a highly prying interest. So many dimensions burst into form, like candelabra storm. or ethereal eruptions. Bubble the blood. heart who throbs out-a-control in a vague dreamstate shared via glyphs interlinked

An entrancing innovation with: An entrancing innovation with its own sparkle! Much enjoyed.

haha. Most certainly. We try: haha. Most certainly. We try to tame it with numbers, trap it in clocks. Time always bursts the springs.

A daily battle it would seem: A daily battle it would seem and one that can only be rectified by the Blood.

Time is the master time can: Time is the master time can be a disaster woo!

Thank you for your stirring: Thank you for your stirring and perceptive thoughts on this oldie. Your insights are spot on and brilliantly expressed. Always a pleasure.