The cool air feels so wonderful. I am somehow too stunned to believe it. The congealed mental sludge in my brain from weeks of melted thoughts has left me too tired to do anything. One might call this procrastination but the woman held down by a stone is not to be blamed. Yet here I am in comfortable coolness, without even one physical remnant of the heat – and still I am unable to write. Where is the poem yearning to flow from my fingers? Where is the unborn truth wriggling its way into the birth canal of my artistic process? Why am I not standing there like the midwife with open hands? I should be eager, yet I have forgotten how to expect success. That long August respite has left me ill-prepared for even this good fortune. The two minutes are up. The birth contractions are getting stronger now. I can finally sense the pain. Time to deliver.
by
Stirling D.
Member since:
September 12, 2006 Birth of a Poem - WWE
August 26, 2009 04:27 PM UTC
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comments: 40
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Comments: 40
Aman, of course Stirling's persona is graciousness itself. I wager, she also probably loves banana smoothies.
Such evocative writing, and yes, there *is* a quality of poetry to it, too..which only vindicates my feeling that somehow, you've reached that stage inside you where you create completely free from the barriers of form or genre. I love that about your writing.
((((((((((Stir)))))))))))))))
(For some reason, analytical writers like me seem immune! Perhaps it's because we don't require a flow of material from our subconscious mind).
I was with you this summer! But my stone has rolled away. Oh, maybe it is bad luck to say that. I agree with James about the prose poem and I expect now the little verse to follow.