Saturday, July 21, 2018

Writing Life

The best time is when
the writing writes itself
each word pushing out the next
word after word clamouring for its noisy entrance

And I
like a woman in labour
am compelled to follow and push, follow and push,  and push, and push,
given over to the single-pointed moment

Yes I
become servant to the force 
that forges through me
feel myself to be 
a passage between 
inner chaos and the outer light
pregnant silence and the rhythm's singing 

Where the until-now inchoate is delivered
with a splash upon a sweat-streaked page
flapping like a silver-bellied fish 
out of water, sucking air, finding lung

And it doesn't matter what it says or means 
And you don't ask what it's all about

It's just the writing wanting to be written
Just each word wanting out
More words wanting 
to join in

To hold hands in sentences
to link arms in couplets
to stomp their their feet in choruses
to roar with applause in paragraphs
to romp and chase, twist and cartwheel,
puff and whistle

And, yes,
also to mourn 
in the company of bereft syllables like--
Oh, oh oh oh, 

To fall upon their knees finally
in exhaustion and despair
at such times gutted, breathless

And I
Can only wait and hope and keep my spirit open
for their immanent live birthing

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