Critic's Cry

A writer's private nightmare: sharing your soul, only to have critics dine on it. Truly creative writers cannot help but share slices of self in their work. The writer's spark gives life to the words.

I can step outside myself to type words, but until I touch the words with a little bit of Mick, the words have no life -- they are a catalog, not an essay; they are a collection, not a story; they are a pile, not a poem. As I write, the rhyme and the rhythm of the text on the page mimic the measure of my mind and the beating of my heart -- to be shared with you -- my friend of the moment, my companion upon the river of my thoughts.

It is the terrible secret of the creative writer -- my words and my works are the children of my mind. Mock them and you mock my soul. Change them and you are killing my babies. It is why the critic's cry cuts so deeply, and why so many potential writers never let their work see the light of day, and why, when I write, I pour out the dark red blood of my need...

Mick


Critic's Cry

I climbed from the depths to stand in the sun;
An effort for me, and for anyone
Who, in their personal, internal world,
Celebrates silently, with banners furled.
No band fanfare for my personal pride:
An accomplishment felt deep down inside.
And then I thought, well, perhaps I could share,
With family, friends...with people who care!
I poured out the dark red blood of my need.
I decanted the sweet wine of my deed.
I awaited an appreciative sigh,
But instead heard laughter -- the critic's cry.
In response to such cold and heartless pain,
I swore on my soul I'd not share again.

Mick McKellar
April 2009

Trans-Light

How does it feel to write a poem? I am not certain that "write" is the operative word. I try to capture the essence of images that often burst past my inner eye in an eternal instant -- the images are always there, but my capacity to focus on just one is so limited, so ephemeral, it can be agony to grasp it long enough to describe what I see and feel and hear. The ideas are so fluid and their expression is so dynamic, that capturing them is akin to juggling Jello.

Occasionally, I can capture a moment, an idea, an image and the rush is incredible. The images wash over me and trigger thoughts that soar on luminous wings, plummet to depths unimaginable, or instantaneously illuminate the darkest corners of my mind and my soul. When my spirit takes flight, I can only hang on for the ride and try to take notes. Creating, observing, describing, painting what I see, feel, and hear with words...is addicting beyond belief...a magnificent addiction!

Mick

Trans-Light

Leap from the Earth, oh pellucid rapture!
Beyond the sky, past gravity's capture,
A poet's thoughts fly on mystical wings.
Ancient Muse plays my heart's translucent strings:
Seeking my soul's pure light to unfetter,
Singing my spiritual love letter,
Illuminating with shimmering hue,
Teaching the sun of my soul to shine through.
Column of sun-glory spikes through the sky -
White hot as lightning and makes the clouds cry,
Pushing the shadows and darkness away,
Pulsing with powerful, true light of day.
Music that shatters my mind's iron bars,
Poetry transports my soul to the stars.

Mick McKellar
April 2009

I was watching the news last night, when they broadcast a story about a participant in Britain's Got Talent, a British relative of American Idol. The story was newsworthy because of the contestant, one Susan Boyle -- a 47-year-old church volunteer from a small Scottish village. Her appearance wrought chuckles, sneers, and snickers from the audience, who roared in laughter when she said she wanted to be a professional singer. No one could have looked less like a professional singer in her modest dress and most plain features.

When she sang, however, the whole dowdy image dropped away and the clarity and beauty of her voice rang out across the auditorium. Laughing smiles became looks of startlement and shock, and then warmed into genuine smiles of enjoyment and appreciation. Those whose expectations were based the usual package for a professional singer were flabergasted and for a few moments the inner beauty and talent of the woman glowed on that stage.

It made me ashamed of how I tend to package folks, based on their appearance. And, considering the humility I learn each morning in the mirror, I can understand the courage it must have taken to take that step and reach for the dream. Bravo, Susan Boyle, Bravo!

Mick

Package Deal

A woman walked out to sing to a crowd,
And they snickered and smiled and laughed out loud.
To their eyes she was a dowdy old dame,
Whose appearance was drab and bland and lame.
She was awkward and moved willy-nilly;
When she gestured and danced she looked silly.
Then the crowd guffawed at her next zinger,
She said she wanted to be a singer!

They all thought her reputation was dead,
But the judges told her to go ahead.

She gestured off stage, for music to start,
And we waited, for her to break her heart
When she started to sing, but we were wrong.
The world shifted when she started that song...
Her voice was golden and clear, and it rang
Like a silver bell, as she blithely sang,
And accomplishing her most cherished goal -
Touched each and every listening soul.

Away fell the image of dowdy old age;
Away fell the wrappings on the package,
And to our wondering eyes did appear,
A glorious soul, with a talent clear
And abundant, with a beautiful sound
That had soared and echoed and danced around,
Till the shadow of prejudice grew thin:
At last we could see the beauty within.

Mick McKellar
April 2008