It is so difficult to write,
Even when hidden ideas begin to move me:
Some recollections from my past,
Or from the day before yesterday.
I work over that germ of a thought
In my ever-wandering, preoccupied mind,
Putting words to the images
And polishing it with favored sounds.
Hearing how my feet strike
When they march to a slow and aging cadence,
My steady heel beat crunching underfoot
The dust of ancient days.
So I permit my written words to age, like life.
I read Chinese mythology or watch British detectives;
Or search for some electronic diversion
Before settling down to gather in my thoughts once more.
My shrine, my room, a mess, but possessed with purpose:
A dusty desk, a computer, precious protected disks,
And a chair – the simplest of a writer’s needs!
All that’s required to spin magic from the mundane air.
Comments
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this is realy cool i liked it very much
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Yes, I too like poems that deal with the process of creating. Your chair! Here in NZ the desk of our most famous woman writer, Janet Frame, is preserved almost as a shrine - but no-one kept her chair.
I like this formula for spinning magic, the quiet application, the way a germ of idea is isolated and protected, words matched to image, polished. Then maturing with time. There's excitement and control in balance here.
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I love reading about the processes of other writers, and this was no exception! I like the way you incorporated both a calm, measured feel along with a certain underlying excitement about writing. At least, that's what I felt when I read it. Greatly enjoyed.
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