Clover Kreger
Woodlands Healing Centre
When Lost in Literary Labyrinths. . .
by Clover Kreger
I don’t present my poetry as other than illusion,
the subjective experiences of a mind embroiled in confusion,
cheap and crazy conjurors’ tricks to glorify a pallid fact
the final convenient artifice: a disappearing act
But it seems to me that human vision is thus,
our brains kaleidoscope the world, magnifying us
smearing all our fears across the clarity
segmenting and distorting outer reality
Understand: a third of life we spend in sleep,
after that plunge into subconscious, surely, we keep
nostalgia for our dreamscapes – vital rich
those seductive, strange adventures – so magic, which
contrast reality as incomplete
The poet’s art, then, is the arduous feat
of making outer happenings as alluring,
with some accentuated lines, some cosmetic blurring
Exaggeration’s understandable, concentration on one point
with fairy dust, a bleak illusions, we anoint
the aches of being human, out of joint
In the final analysis, the point
of poetry is the offering of a gift-wrapped bone
Lost in literary labyrinths, we forget that we’re alone
A Selection of Poems by Clover Kreger
I'd rather flee than fight thee
Nascent Morning in the Mountains
In Transient Flashes, For a Transcendental Moment which Passes, Life (Can't You See?) Is an Ecstasy
The Fit Cats and Fat Whores of Singapore
When Lost in Literary Labyrinths. . .
All Fineness and Finery Goes to Earth
© Copyright 2007 Clover Kreger Disclaimer: The information at this website is not intended to be a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis or treatment. Always seek the advice of your doctor with any questions you may have regarding a medical condition. The content of this website comprises only the observations and opinions of the authors and contributors: it does not constitute medical advice to readers.