I wrote a poem today, from start to finish. The start was having the idea–that spark of a single line–while I was in the shower. Thank god it didn’t come at three in the morning, the time at which most of my good ideas seem to come these days. The finish was printing out a second draft of the typed poem and being so happy with it that my body felt heavy with awareness, like that moment when you realize you’ve had a bit too much to drink. That moment when you know.
The in-between was scribbling in blue over seven journal pages, then going back and looking for the gems, then slapping it on the screen and building it up, piece by piece and watching it take shape.
I’ve never been a huge fan of poetry-writing, so this feels weird, but something’s there. I’ve always worked in words and punctuation, but this? Working with images and space? It’s different and somehow more alive, like a more direct connection to the reader and I think I might actually like it.
This is the second poem I have written for class this semester, and both experiences have been… organic, is that the word? I think it is. Like they have sprouted from me on their own but then once I see the shoot, it’s just a matter of tending, nurturing, clearing out space, letting it take shape on its own and then pruning to perfection.
Yeah, okay. Let’s go with this.