It’s been a while. I’ve been a seven and a half hour plane ride from home for the past two months and though I’ve been back for two weeks, it doesn’t yet feel normal. I did some writing while I was away, but I was an idiot and forgot my password so I couldn’t post any updates. But now I’m back, and the next series are travel logs from my time in London and beyond. Enjoy!
I promised prose, and now it is here. It is far from complete; I have been through several drafts. I have had many conversations about what I want to accomplish and how I might going about doing it, and I have been reflecting on writing as a process. As much as I love editing other’s works, I have always shied away from editing my own pieces. But as I have been working on this, I have been learning that editing is absolutely necessary. Rather, maybe it’s editing that makes writing what it is even more than the original ideas that instigated it. The more I work on this piece, the more I realize there is so much more to be done. Writing has become an exhausting process, but I can’t help myself. It must be done, it must be begun and edited and reworked until I am nearly sick of it. But then, perhaps, if I’m lucky, it might be something. Something that I am proud of and is maybe nearly whole. If you have any reflections on the writing process in general, or on this piece “Ezra,” lend me your thoughts! I can take all the advice I can get.
Yes, I am still writing. Not frequently, but I’m trying to get back into the swing of it. Because, someday, I will publish a book of poetry. This is something I dream of doing, and I know that dreams will not come true unless I am an active participant in making them happen.
So I’m taking some new ideas, and writing; I’m taking some old ideas, and reworking them. The latter is what I have done with “You”, which is a reworking of “Live and Love”. At the moment, I am leaving the original poem up for all to see, because I find that the juxtaposition of the two is a quite intriguing view into the creative process. Eventually, I’ll likely take it down. Out with the old and in with the new! I hope that in the coming weeks I’ll have a lot of new ideas springing up and be inspired to write… Until then, happy reading!
Recently I’ve come to notice that my poetry subject and style comes and goes in waves. I’ve recently been shying away from the darker, coarser scene and begun to write in a more melodic, romantic style.
Personally, I find this both a hindrance and an inspiration, but I suppose that goes for everything else too, and not just this poetical instance.
Anyhow, concerning my newest poem: It has no title, which is very unusual for me. It being nameless is not intentional, but for now I am at a loss to describe this whole poem in just a few words. Other than that the only other thing I might add, another thing which is also somewhat unusual, is that this poem has had very limited editing. Normally I write and rewrite and rewrite and rewrite till I’m so sick of what I’ve written that I nearly give up, but this one was nice to me, a rare phenomenon which I’d love to occur more often.
This poem was inspired, as many of my writings are, by a dream, so beware of strange people and ideas…
Scene:In the midst of my own chaotic, self-induced, mental apocolypse, in a raging world which thankfully does not actually exsist.
Event: a little girl comes out of the crowd and, noticing the tears streaming down my face, walks to me and takes my hand. Pulling me out of the horrors, she hugs me with all her might, consoling me for things she couldn’t possibly understand.
…I find it so incredible how roles reverse; I should be the one who picks up a child like this when she falls and scrapes her knees, who wipes away her pint-sized tears. But here she is, wise far beyond her years, and it makes me slightly embarrrassed that I could not be comforted by anyone but her. Occasionally, motherly-type affections confuse me, but nontheless I awoke with an understanding that adults do not just depend on adults, or even that children depend solely on adults, or any combination of people; we all need each other, all ages, all sorts. How can we know who we are if we don’t readily see who were were and what we will become?
And by the way, this is in a lose form of a villanelle, I love villanelles, but it’s really not a subject matter for any strict form of poetry.