The Writer's Mind
In the midst of plowing through homework that I allowed to pile up all week (it's all due by midnight tonight) and sending messages for staffing for work, I have been scribbling some lines for a new poem. Why am I thinking of this now when I should be reviewing notes for a paper on the long-term effects of cutting funding for arts and humanities in public schools and participating in a discussion on the difference between a query letter and a press release? Well, partly because homework is boring and I would rather be playing, but primarily because I am a writer and the words never stop.
In honor of those words that I want to write even when I am supposed to be doing other things like focusing on my education (25 days to go!), I bring you a poem by a writer I admire. Theodora Goss is a mistress of wordcraft. Her poetry touches the heart, her fantasy takes readers to realms they didn't imagine existed. Here, Theodora tells us why she writes poetry.
Why I Write Poetry
by Theodora Goss
If I didn’t commit this crime
of putting words on paper one after the other
that either do or do not rhyme,
that have a surreptitious rhythm
and make a kind of sense
or perhaps nonsense
depending on whether it’s Thursday —
if I didn’t choose to play
in this particular puddle, splashing myself
all over the pavement, embarrassing
myself in front of your eyes —
I believe the words would build up
in my brain, and it would explode
like a bomb filled with clouds, mountains,
oak forests in which owls fly silently through the night,
the sight of wild geese overhead, the sound
of snow falling from overladen fir branches onto snow,
lakes that reflect the sky between shards
of floating ice, wolves howling at the moon,
mushrooms growing on an old log,
Autumn dancing with red and yellow leaves in her hair,
bare branches against the sky forming a rune
I do not understand, time itself,
and an undefinable longing.
Forgive me for committing, repeatedly,
the act of poetry. I’ve trying not to disintegrate
or make a mess.
of putting words on paper one after the other
that either do or do not rhyme,
that have a surreptitious rhythm
and make a kind of sense
or perhaps nonsense
depending on whether it’s Thursday —
if I didn’t choose to play
in this particular puddle, splashing myself
all over the pavement, embarrassing
myself in front of your eyes —
I believe the words would build up
in my brain, and it would explode
like a bomb filled with clouds, mountains,
oak forests in which owls fly silently through the night,
the sight of wild geese overhead, the sound
of snow falling from overladen fir branches onto snow,
lakes that reflect the sky between shards
of floating ice, wolves howling at the moon,
mushrooms growing on an old log,
Autumn dancing with red and yellow leaves in her hair,
bare branches against the sky forming a rune
I do not understand, time itself,
and an undefinable longing.
Forgive me for committing, repeatedly,
the act of poetry. I’ve trying not to disintegrate
or make a mess.
Theodora Goss recently shared this poem on Facebook, but this and many others can be seen on her website, TheodoraGosspoems.com. Please take a moment to visit her website. You won't be disappointed!
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