Another fall themed poem.
I felt it was time for a short, soothing poem, highly inspired by parts of T.S Eliot’s “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”.
Sometimes you get surprisingly good stuff from stream of consciousness writing. This was easily tweaked into something I really wanted to share. Read on below.
A short little piece of writing, barely 500 words, which is almost borderline poetry.
Wrote another little poem thing. (Seems today is a poetic day for me.)
A little poetic train of thought thing I wrote on 750words.
Another flailing piece of semi-poetic writing which turned nice and coherent.
A blank sheet of paper, an empty document.
Oh, the promise that you bring, oh the possibilities, the choices. Whatever you can imagine, anything you can see can be used to fill them up.
Words of any kind can be stacked up and up, sentences, phrases, poetry or prose. Everything is possible and in some way that makes it all rather frightening.
Because if anything is possible, how are you supposed to make a choice about it?
“It is too big”, you cry. “The responsibility is too great for me!”
So you sit there and stare at it, perhaps hoping that it will start filling itself of its own accord, or perhaps that you, like a woodcarver, finding whatever may be hidden in any block of wood, that by staring you will be able to see the mystical, magical pattern of words waiting to be filled out on that one sheet.
You dawdle and you procrastinate, you angst and you dwell. Every word you put down seems to sully that pristine whiteness, like footsteps on a meadow of newly fallen snow, white and glistening.
The time passes, soon the hours of the day will be used up. The page remains blank and defiant.
What to do then, how to act?
The only way you can act when faced with such a devious being; you grapple it head on. You take that pen in your hand, you sit yourself by your keyboard and you just write.
You force those words out, you wrestle them like bull calves at a rodeo, you force them into patterns, into sentences and…Soon you find that the pattern you were looking for, desperately seeking in that white blankness suddenly emerges there before your very eyes.
The words flow down the page as if they’ve always been there, they hum like a melody and they create patterns to soothe your weary writer’s soul. For you find a satisfaction there, in this trial and exercise, like a man who goes for a run every day. Though he finds it daunting every day, especially when the conditions aren’t the best, when the rain pours and the wind blows, he keeps at it and gets successively better at it.
So you, the writer must do the same. Every day you sit down with that blank sheet of paper, that empty document, even when the day seems cruel and break to you. You sit there and you wrestle those words into shape and in the process you write out your soul’s melody.
And when your soul is truly humming, that is when stories are born.