Diane Pool

Biography

More than twenty years ago I began writing a book--a Workbook/Memoir--emphasizing Art's ability to be a healing path for resolving emotional issues. I intend to complete it before I die, for myself if no other. One of the early readers of the draft manuscript, Maureen Jivanni, was exceedingly skilled at annotating her impressions. As I now resume the writing of 'Listening for Mermaids & Faeries', I long to reconnect with Maureen. The need to let her know how deeply appreciated and influential her comments are, is strong. Equally, my continuing admiration for her own poetic work which I share with my Saturday Art students. Though I do write poetry, I joined this group as a link to reconnecting with Maureen. I believe I will also creatively benefit from discovering this website but my first hope is that it leads me to a renewed friendship with someone special I carelessly lost contact with. Any help will be greatly appreciated...Thank you, in advance, Diane

Excerpt-

I am a questing sailor returned home to seek what I need. I climb this hill in good spirits The Walled City above my own. The silence and the white paper--vast beneath the six lines--grows larger and heavier with each passing moment. She has picked up her pen but it wavers. Her throat begins to tighten...fear, and anger, erupt. Compelled--propelled--she moves to forestall the crushing sensation: with a broad sweep of her pen she must write, she thinks, must write something--ANYTHING!--that will ward off this strangling, crushing, immobilization...and with the immediacy of her emotions dominating, she seizes upon her feelings, examining them clinically, feeding them into her arm, her hand, her pen, as if the pen she held were a microscope for the anxieties she had under scrutiny, transform, emerge as words: The landscape around me is Lunar crumbling lava beneath sparse brush Relief starts to ease her tensions; seeps into her muscles. She is happy again, able to smoothly add: Red dust covers my sandals Heat radiates against my bare legs; I shift the light pack on my shoulders. (And...? she mutters... AND?) I turn. (Yes, yes--I turn...?) I TURN TO SEE HOW FAR I HAVE COME she writes in a hurry, and suddenly realizes her throat is again tight. Closed. Fear of sounding stupid has choked and strangled her. The Walled City Above is shut tight.

All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.