Where does a poem come from?
From play with words?
Intention of language?
Simply throwing confetti to the wind?
A poem takes shape
whether I am present or not.
Some days the muse is mine.
Others I merely stroke the fire
waiting for the flame to ignite.
William Stafford said I should kneel
in the deep earth and dig.*
Then I open my notebook,
lay my pen against soft paper,
and wriggle these fingers.
A gift is given.
I will not let go.
I’ve been thinking about where poems come from and whether the joy is in the process or in the product. I don’t know the answer. But I enjoy asking the question.
Kevin Hodgson sent out postcards. I got one and added my given word on the padlet he created. In this instance, the process was the fun. The sending and receiving of postcards in the real mailbox was exciting. None of us are really quite sure what the product means, but we all agree it’s cool.
* “Successful people cannot find poems; for you must kneel down and explore for them.”