I was going to save this for Thursday, and a do a Poetry Thursday post, which I haven’t done in a million years, but I’ve already been saving it for a really long time, and Thursday feels a long way off at the moment, though I know it will zoom up, and past, before I know it.
I’ve been thinking about poetry a lot lately, and how I don’t seem to write any poems anymore. I used to write poetry all the time. It used to flow out of me, especially when I was angry or sad or boggled about something. The last poem I wrote was in 2007. 2007! Nearly 5 years ago. How can that be? I READ poetry all the time, in books, and magazines, and online, but nothing seems to be shivering loose down my arm from my brain anymore. Have I forgotten HOW?
It’s not that I’ve stopped seeing things that move me, or reading about things that interest me, or writing, for goodness’ sake. It’s not that I have no creative urges at all, but they seem to have gotten subsumed into other areas of my life, and are never released in poetry form these days. Even when I am choosing to live a more intentional life, to be in the here and now, I need to remember to record my feelings, my thoughts, my observations, and in addition, to remember that prose and journaling are not the only forms of expression.
You Ask About Poetry
by Mark Nepo
You ask from an island so far away
it remains unspoiled. To walk quietly
till the miracle in everything speaks
is poetry. You want to look for poetry
in your soul and in everyday life, as you
search for stones on the beach. Four
thousand miles away, as the sun ices
the snow, I smile. For in this moment,
you are the poem. After years of looking,
I can only say that searching for
small things worn by the deep is
the art of poetry. But listening
to what they say is the poem.