Wealie's World » literature http://wealie.co.uk A walk through the weird and wonderful world of wealie Tue, 25 Nov 2014 01:13:01 +0000 en hourly 1 http://wordpress.org/?v=3.0 Why Write http://wealie.co.uk/my-art/why-write/ http://wealie.co.uk/my-art/why-write/#comments Sat, 18 Sep 2010 20:44:12 +0000 Ruth Weal http://wealie.co.uk/?p=433 Continue reading →]]> I have often wondered what drives a person to write, and more to the point, why I write.  On occasion I have examined my need to write in my own poetry and prose.  ”Why Write” came about not long after I began reading my poetry a loud at the Salisbury Art Centre Poetry Café and one of the audience members asked me why I wrote.  I have been asked this question a number of times over the years and as all the others at this time I wasn’t able to come up with an adequate answer.  The question rattled around in my head for quite some time after the latest asking until I was driven to write “Why Write”.

WHY WRITE

Someone asked me once “Why do you write?”  I couldn’t answer them, I simply didn’t know, decades of prolific work spanned out before me and I didn’t know?  Now time has marched on and that question still rings within my ears begging for an answer to be told.

Why do I unfold the tortured soul out upon the page, why is the written word the only way to vent my rage?  Why does my heartache court my prose, why here that my constant quest for wisdom only ever told?

How come the words always seem to fit, the sentences to knit and then follows truth, spinning out this epic tale of a woman named Ruth?

When you read my words what do they speak to you, what dark secrets do they unearth that you never knew?  Where do you go as you close your eyes and my prose washes over you?  What light do they leave in your heart as they wipe away the stain of my unending fear?

I know now why I write, a part of me has always known, but so simple an answer too inconceivable to be the whole truth.

I write because I must, because to not to is to deny my whole.  I write because I breathe, because to not to is not a choice.  I write because writing is simply who I am, because poetry runs as surely as blood through these veins.

My words, my constant companions until the moment I cease to breathe, their existence testament to this life and the thoughts in my head.  May they live long in the hearts and minds of other when I am finally just dust and dead.

Ruth Weal 19 Sept 2005 9.35 pm
© Copyright R Weal 2005

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Provoking Thought by Ryan S Fortney on his blog Paxcorpus
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]]> http://wealie.co.uk/my-art/why-write/feed/ 17 Open http://wealie.co.uk/my-art/open/ http://wealie.co.uk/my-art/open/#comments Sat, 18 Sep 2010 19:16:51 +0000 Ruth Weal http://wealie.co.uk/?p=412 Continue reading →]]> This piece of prose is about how we often don’t see the possibilities within our own actions, both positive and negative.
I had this idea of a conversation between a wise old man and a youth, which examines the discussion and “Open” was the finished product.

OPEN

Open your stride; tell me…, what do you see?

“Nothing”
 Nothing?
“Nothing”

But there is so much to see, so much, possibility
Exotic lands you have yet to tread, every step a journey you have not led
Every pause to rest a blessing, leaving you time enough for the balm of confessing
Bringing you ever closer to your ending, returning you to the beginning for the final mending
So that you might fall at the feet of great love and sup from the fount of divine knowledge above
Then you might accept the random fleetingness of this life indeed, as you spread new life with your sown seed

Open your arms; tell me…, what do you see?

“Nothing”
 Nothing?
“Nothing”

But there is so much you can be, so much, opportunity
Untried but true, your great love’s embrace; wanton but pure, still innocent and chaste
Unknown but fast, a protective circle you cast
Enveloping the unborn child, protecting the innocence mild
The fearful, desperate clasp to stave off dark death, or the jealous, binding grasp of unflinching selfishness
All these promises dormant in your arms they wait; waiting only on your actions and the hand of fate

Open your hands; tell me…, what do you see?

“Nothing”
 Nothing?
“Nothing”

And yet I see only the possibilities, a great abundance of opportunities
A wealth of works as yet unformed and a thousand caresses awaiting their dawn
A weapon raised or a cradle for the babe, so many situations to choose or evade
The hand of friendship or a mortal wound, the choice to win a heart or seal your doom
A means to build bridges or plunder and destroy, to lead and be bold or hide and be coy
Raised in surrender or held out in peace to those you greet, your hands unfold the story of all whom you meet

Open your heart; tell me…, what do you feel?

“Everything”
 Everything?
“Everything”

Everything, all the many splendid possibilities, each and every sacred opportunity
Every hurt I might inflict, each wound I won’t intend and all the many sorrows that I may have to mend
Each gentle look, every unshed tear, all the times I held back, when I could have interfered
Every unmatched moment, each forgettable kiss, I see them all before me and not a one would I miss
Everything I could ever be, every possibility, and all the many opportunities
The path to love and tenderness, that begins and ends within this flesh

Ruth Weal 25 August 2009 7.28 am
© Copyright R Weal 2009
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