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!
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
Oh, how I love it,
Bring on more sand!
(originally published in St. Anthony Messenger)
Today's word: reverberating