Poetry, etc.
I thought I would share a little bit of my poetry here. Does the ability to write really inspired, moving poetry just come and go? I find that sometimes I am filled to the brim with creativity--poignant images, sharp words, impeccable form. When I can write like that, I feel like such a master of the English language that I can completely form and shape it into something that is mine and is beautiful, like a lump of clay in the hands of a potter. But then other times I get completely dried out, and nothing flows from my pen except a few awkward, flaking phrases that never bond to make a coherent piece.
When I wrote this in October 2003, my mind branded with the image of the bright orange pear trees outside my dorm window, I felt like a master.
Autumn
It comes in fire--
a polychromatic explosion
igniting first the tree-tops, then
spreading hungrily, swirling flames
ablaze in the air, excited
by infrequent gusts of wind,
a conflagration raining to the ground
and devouring the remnant of life
from months gone by--
yes, it comes in fire, terrific brilliance, but
leaves behind sheets of ash,
amassed in crevices and gutters,
ardor's cold dead residue.
The creativity that this poem sprung from--why can I not access it all the time? Will I really have to wait until fall to be this acutely alive to the earth again? I wish I knew some foolproof secret to being a poet every day, every moment.
