to watch stories step out
from behind clumps of lines...
Kneeling in the dirt
troweling bulbs,
I gather clustered ideas.
Looking up above,
whisps of white
write across a pink sky.
No burdens over me
of format or rules,
just words from my day.
I watch the letters,
they dance over my fingers
clinking and clicking together.
All just little bits
of immeasured life,
waiting for the curtain.
I breathe in a breath,
eyes shut I exhale, open.
Audiences the same, but I am not.
Poetry has been on my mind lately. I can feel those words piling up in places that have been a bit vacant. I look around at things, at stories, at people, at situations, and the words write and swirl around. Like little tornadoes of poems flying and out of control. I've got to somehow catch them all and close them in a notebook to settle down and sort out later.
Are they poems?
Are they feelings?
Is there a difference?
"Writers must...take care of the sensibility that houses the possibility of poems."
~Mary Oliver
This line resonates with me: "I've got to somehow catch them all and close them in a notebook to settle down and sort out later." I'll be pondering that for a bit. Thanks.
ReplyDeletePoems do this to me, find me in the strangest of places, and pull on me to catch them. Pay attention. Like Mary Oliver says, "take care of the sensibility". Wisdom and truth are found in poems.
ReplyDeleteOh, my. I read it once. Then again. And once more. Poetry is your language. I hope that when the words swirl and twirl, you will be able to catch many of them, to keep them alive and share with others.
ReplyDelete