As poets, it's probably our common denominator. What do you think? The bitter fuel that drives the angry heart in the night? That sudden mortal topic that can halt our steps. That haunts the pen and keys? Well, don't let me speak for you, but it's a hunch I'll speculate upon for a moment.
It's enough of a hunch, at least, to title this blog series by in my case: Death and A Writer. It's what I believe drives most of my writing. Not always a fear of death, though fear fits as much as the next person, but enough of a morbid curiosity of its mechanics so that I'm stuffing my finite-ness full of what I love and admire in the world the most - writing and more specifically, poetry.
We recently found a cozy little spot within walking distance of old downtown here in Johnson City. I was gleeful to find that the city's original cemetery was a block or so away and on the meandering route to where I often write. If you've never written in a cemetery I suggest you try it. Write a poem near someone you used to know, or better yet, while sitting on a rectangle plot of soil already purchased as your grave. See what boils up from you psyche from that.
There comes a tipping point each day, a sort of epiphany, when I feel like, OK, there it is, the day's accomplishment, getting up was worth it, going to bed tonight is well earned, I will not have cheated this day. Nothing will cause me much alarm when I rest my head and whisper, I'm Grateful around 2 AM in the morning when I usually get to bed.
That poem, or poems, are good to leave behind for the day.
That painting says something. It's a good statement.
That story brought to life was worth the toil.
I'm glad I read that author's book today and extended their legacy into my life and broadened who they were a little deeper into the human experience.
Even though I wanted to rage out and say ten negative things about Trump today, I managed to hold myself to only one and it was only slightly sarcastic. That's progress!
And if I die before I wake...
It's enough of a hunch, at least, to title this blog series by in my case: Death and A Writer. It's what I believe drives most of my writing. Not always a fear of death, though fear fits as much as the next person, but enough of a morbid curiosity of its mechanics so that I'm stuffing my finite-ness full of what I love and admire in the world the most - writing and more specifically, poetry.
We recently found a cozy little spot within walking distance of old downtown here in Johnson City. I was gleeful to find that the city's original cemetery was a block or so away and on the meandering route to where I often write. If you've never written in a cemetery I suggest you try it. Write a poem near someone you used to know, or better yet, while sitting on a rectangle plot of soil already purchased as your grave. See what boils up from you psyche from that.
There comes a tipping point each day, a sort of epiphany, when I feel like, OK, there it is, the day's accomplishment, getting up was worth it, going to bed tonight is well earned, I will not have cheated this day. Nothing will cause me much alarm when I rest my head and whisper, I'm Grateful around 2 AM in the morning when I usually get to bed.
That poem, or poems, are good to leave behind for the day.
That painting says something. It's a good statement.
That story brought to life was worth the toil.
I'm glad I read that author's book today and extended their legacy into my life and broadened who they were a little deeper into the human experience.
Even though I wanted to rage out and say ten negative things about Trump today, I managed to hold myself to only one and it was only slightly sarcastic. That's progress!
And if I die before I wake...
