Yesterday (the 15th of April) marked seven months of my poem-a-day journey.
I'm feeling the weight of this self-challenge as of late. I'm staying on task, but I'm realizing more frequently, "Oh yes, I've done that. Let's do something new."
Who wants to be a broken record, even if it's a good song? A one-trick pony? Even when deferring to what comes easiest when the idea of digging deeper and deeper every single day for another many months feels suddenly impossible?
I think my current pause in confidence has a lot to do with not wanting pieces birthed from a mechanical roboticism of the task. It would be obvious to the right eyes. To me later.
At the same time we need to be able to write when we don't feel like it. When we're not inspired. Sometimes we write inspired. Sometimes we revise inspired. Tenacity, when it hurts, is a poet's friend.
I'm not without prompts. Ever. No one is:
The spider struggling right now, out on the deck, to strap down its flopping web in the wind.
How perfect today's weather seems for an Easter day.
The combined scent of bacon and eggs out of the kitchen at this moment.
The milk chocolate cross someone bought us for Easter (how freakin' strange).
The white blooms of a dogwood falling like snow flurries in bright sun.
The cat purring on my wife's lap so loudly I can hear it, almost feel the vibration, across the room.
The disappointment of coffee cooled lukewarm after I'd forgotten it trying to knock out this blog post.
Or a combination of these, some piece placing any of these in juxtaposition. A loving of any of these, or hating. An attempt to understand them, or to simply smash them into ugly abstraction.
None of us are ever without material. Inspiration? Perhaps. Energy. Perhaps. But learn to keep writing we must, come storms or perfect alignments our needs.
Today - Easter - a day representing renewal - begins month eight. I'm ready.
Isn't it great when you end up talking yourself through your own frustration?
I'm feeling the weight of this self-challenge as of late. I'm staying on task, but I'm realizing more frequently, "Oh yes, I've done that. Let's do something new."
Who wants to be a broken record, even if it's a good song? A one-trick pony? Even when deferring to what comes easiest when the idea of digging deeper and deeper every single day for another many months feels suddenly impossible?
I think my current pause in confidence has a lot to do with not wanting pieces birthed from a mechanical roboticism of the task. It would be obvious to the right eyes. To me later.
At the same time we need to be able to write when we don't feel like it. When we're not inspired. Sometimes we write inspired. Sometimes we revise inspired. Tenacity, when it hurts, is a poet's friend.
I'm not without prompts. Ever. No one is:
The spider struggling right now, out on the deck, to strap down its flopping web in the wind.
How perfect today's weather seems for an Easter day.
The combined scent of bacon and eggs out of the kitchen at this moment.
The milk chocolate cross someone bought us for Easter (how freakin' strange).
The white blooms of a dogwood falling like snow flurries in bright sun.
The cat purring on my wife's lap so loudly I can hear it, almost feel the vibration, across the room.
The disappointment of coffee cooled lukewarm after I'd forgotten it trying to knock out this blog post.
Or a combination of these, some piece placing any of these in juxtaposition. A loving of any of these, or hating. An attempt to understand them, or to simply smash them into ugly abstraction.
None of us are ever without material. Inspiration? Perhaps. Energy. Perhaps. But learn to keep writing we must, come storms or perfect alignments our needs.
Today - Easter - a day representing renewal - begins month eight. I'm ready.
Isn't it great when you end up talking yourself through your own frustration?
