Still another poem about writing.
Not that I'm expert on the subject. On the contrary, the more I write, the more I'm mystified by the process. Oh, I've gotten the mechanics right ... after all these years of practice: Fingers on the home keys, and away we go.
It's that other part ... the part in which the ideas come hopping along like shy rabbits looking for that last nibble of clover at dusk ... that's the part I don't really understand.
I know, a quiet place helps ... or even a noisy place, like a bus, a waiting room at the hospital ... places like that will work, if you can tune out all that's going on outside of you.
The blank page, believe it or not, can be a stimulus, too ... an invitation to scribble a few random thoughts.
Then the plot thickens ... the mystery deepens ... and sometimes ... sometimes, mind you ... what you've started, that seed you've planted, goes on, grows up ... and becomes a poem.
Even one who uses ellipses so recklessly ... one who remains mystified by those final steps in the writing process ... can do it. And so can you.
Indeed, bring on more sand!
The poem:
BUILDING POEMS
My poems are built
on the crawling sands
of memory; see how
they tilt and teeter
on the brink of meaning,
how they race past us
in the stopped-time
dimension into which
they’ve been thrust,
how they collide head-on
with indifference, then
come reverberating back
like struck gongs,
resting finally in my
outstretched hands.
Oh, how I love it,
this ever-changing,
never-changing process.
Bring on more sand!
©
2005
(published in the May 2005 issue of St. Anthony Messenger)
***Today's word: reverberating
Afterthoughts ... in response to your comments:
Oh, I've known that side of the equation, too, Magran. How disappointing to have a idea escape the scribbled note and ... POOF! ... it's gone forever. My solution is an ever-present scrap of paper, a pen or pencil always within reach ... preferably in a handy pocket. That way, just before the rabbit scampers away, I can preserve a "snapshot" of the idea ... which I may develop into something later. I know about brambles, too. They're not easy to clear away ... but, clearing one today ... another tomorrow or the next day ... will eventually begin letting more sunshine in. Then things can start to flower.
I still have a long way to go, Indigo ... but I thank you for the kind words. I do try to observe things around me ... try to see them as though for the first time ... through the eyes of a very young person (and, for me, that's some stretch). I'm surprised ... and pleased, then ... with the things I see ... really see. And sometimes ... when I get my impressions on paper before they go hopping off ... other people read them and identify with them. Oh, how rewarding that is!
2 comments:
Oh do I identify. Mine are not poems though. They are thoughts - projects - ideas for organizing - life solutions - etc. The crawling sands of memory are not my friends. They are the quick sand that swallows up the bright ideas..never to be seen again. My thoughts are the shy rabbits that scamper away and are lost forever in the bramble of everyday life. A bramble so thick that I don't have the energy or the courage to chase down the rabbits and commit them to the captivity of written word.
I have often said that I believe everyone has at least one good book in them. Not everyone wants to be read....for those few who do their lives serve as a canvas. I believe it was the author Stephen King who once said to write about what you know, you can't go wrong with the familiar. You take examples of life around you and give it elegance and breath to whisper upon the pages of our hearts. I think you definitely have all the aspects of writing down to a gifted skill. (Hugs) Indigo
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