Hunter, Gatherer, Weaver, Baker – Bringing Life To Poetry
I’m taunted by the haughty letters
Phrases possessed by unseen demons
Words mocking me from shadowy stronghold
While tasked with bringing life to poetry
Pencil points prod and jab my empty hands
Inkwells dry and refuse to yield their essence
My keyboard frozen with an unseen glue
How I’m trapped and unsure what to do
Invisible winds sift my parchment sheaves
That which showed promise now shuffled
And momentarily lost in the maelstrom
The chaos of thoughts mixing uncontrolled
With a humble sincerity I cry aloud
Perhaps understanding will be my reward
Yet unearned and certainly undeserved
For the secrets of the literary elders are their own
And yet with perseverance sourced from somewhere
Forward I press into the raging cataclysm
Armed with only my energies and determination
I grasp at the fragments and hold tightly
With ancestral strength, reminiscent of a primitive time
Focusing on the simple acts of hunting and gathering
No bit too small nor without some potential
My pile grows in a ramshackle compilation
Finally when my strength nears the surrender point
I retreat to the expected safety of a well lit corner
Unceremoniously dumping the gatherings
Refocusing my intentions to that of a librarian
Slowly the sort begins, each thought pondered upon
Unorthodox piles forming within my area
Snippets of many sessions now given fresh light
Verses thought forgotten now resurrected
Unseen hands seem to guide the cobbling
Pieces woven carefully and with great reverence
Threads seemingly join without rationality
And the realization that I’ve become a weaver
Eyes shifting rapidly as my confidence grows
The needle of my mind’s eye a blurry flash
Words become lines, verses become stanzas
Substance emerges from the recent darkness
An ethereal light seems to appear and prosper
Words emerge from the shadows in curiosity
Tenuous and then with an unexpected enthusiasm
I’m surrounded by a clamoring of verbs and adjectives
Pronouns elbowing nouns and adverbs for position
Serpentine sentences carrying long lost ideas
Punctuation spilling like marbles on a wooden table
And my page appears to be somewhat of a magnet
Furiously I reach and select the perfect ingredients
A pastry chef in the great corner kitchen of poetry
Mixing, slicing, stirring and finally simmering
Subtly adding the final bits of literary flavoring
My hands remain hovering above the finished page
Each line reviewed and a growing faith renewed
Showing dimensions as if a village had participated
From a world of chaos…something new created
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What a cataclysmic weaving of creative thoughts. I could see the stockpiling, weaving, slicing, tossing, keeping and placing of words, verses and stanzas flying off this pile and from your Muse to your special creative writers corner. You haven, where you capture, cut and dice and stretch your imagination to outer limits. Dissecting each stanzas till it’s perfect in your eyes, then voila a new creation is formed. You certainly brought life to this posting my friend, Bravo….very well done. Did you stop to take any breaths along the way as you whirled about like a mad poet. LOL
You are too kind good Sir. I penned this on a flight home from Tijuana this morning. Did plan it this way, it certainly excited as how it evolved.
A particularly fine work Ralph, as if a door opened, til now closed. Wonderful phrasing and imagery, and a subtle metaphor to explain the rudimentary growing of a creative work. You muse kind, your hand dexterous, this would have to be my now favorite of all your works. Kudos Ralph.
You know something Ralph, I didnt want it to stop. This was amazing. The speed of the poem increasing as the words began to form into something special and artistic. The true struggle and success of a poet at work. The mind ever dumping materials to be sorted and categorized, then the process to create. It had it all. Excellent work my friend.
And the warrior of word-craft is once again victorious! Ever vigilant, brave, and confident, he brings forth his hard-won treasure to share with his army of followers. Excellent deeds, Ralph.
An excellent piece of writing, Ralph. Saying that you wrote it during a flight from Tijuana brought back memories because most of my early work was written on a train between Caboolture to Brisbane on my way to or from work. Your clear descriptions and pacy phrasing was a pleasure to read.
The process of writing poetry and how to encourage people to read it seem to be common themes flowing across this site at the moment.