Our Selves

This poem has to do with the inclination, common among writers, I think, to live entirely in one’s own head. This desire to be a recluse is enabled by our many electronic distractions and playthings. Yet such a life is not very satisfying.

Here I play with the notion of mind and body, and consider how important both are to our happiness and sense of connection, even as we age and look forward to an existence of pure spirit.

Thanks for coming by to read.

Although I have a lot to do,

I cannot leave my Self behind,

A being, merely bodiless,

Ethereal, and only mind.

But while my tunes are ringing loud

And playing in my inner ear,

I block the sounds around me, and

I hear what only I can hear.

I’m like a flautist with his flute,

Whose breath composes but a part:

The shape of his thin cylinder

Enshrines intangibles in art.

So too, this flesh, it transports passion,

Ferries words and meaning, too.

So acts this body like a plane

I charter, bringing me to you.

And though ephemeral and short,

Our brief, bleak sojourn on this plane,

Our separate spirits can’t comport,

Without these aching bonds of pain.

We watch our aging flesh rebel.

Meanwhile, our mind, it sparks and flies!

No matters what the mirror tells,

Our Selves will be forever spry!

Copyright 2022 Andrea LeDew

For a poem about the value of an individual mind in the age of the Internet, read Hive Mind.