Today's poem and subsequent explanation were prompted by a section of the poem "The Flea" by Rick Barot:
At a certain point I stopped and asked
what poems I could write, which were different
from the poems I wanted to write, the wanting
being proof that I couldn't write those poems, that they
were impossible.
Oh boy, I can relate.
I always think I can do a different kind of poetry, that
I will suddenly become someone
who studies and revises her
own poems until every word
and beat is perfect.
Instead, poetry runs through me
in a moment and with a few
tiny adjustments, is released.
Like this one.
And I make no apologies.
(7:40 a.m.)
After writing this little piece, and thinking it good enough to publish, I happened to revisit my 7 Lines/7 Days poems from 2021. In reading back, I realized that at the beginning of this year I made a clear decision to spend time on other things besides my writing. Which worked for a while.
But for a true writer, that is not workable long term plan.
The craving began. I wrote quite a few things about the desire to write, about not getting going, and about not being satisfied with where I was as a writer.
Then came October and my world completely crumbled in a way I haven't seen in decades. And it was with that my writing came back to me. It has been my lifesaver, my friend, my confidante, my connection, my scolding, my map-making. In other words, writing is everything to me. Which sounds cliche but truly, it is not.
So however it shows up, that is okay.
I am a writer.
And the way I approach it, the how and when, requires no apologies.
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