authoring destruction

The more I read about poetry, the more I examine my own as I write it: I see more symbols than the letters, the little bird-marks of stressed and unstressed syllables flowing before my eyes like water, and no more organized. I struggle, tugged between the beauty and power of structure, and the beauty and power of expression. And I wonder, how much of this is my rhythm? We all have them, rhythms... certain basic beats that pulse in us. The most obvious one is the iambic metering of heartbeats, steady in each living breast. But there are more complex polyrhythms than that, which will manifest themselves unfetteredly, unconsciously, brutally if needbe, whether we are writing a poem, or playing a drum, or nervously tapping our fingers, or even just speaking. Oh, my mind is called, sometimes, to listen so much harder to all the things that are going on around me and within me. There's just this wealth of information to get at, if I could only learn to read the morse-code of it and turn it out of all the things it hides in.