I did not realize how good my mic is until I heard back and realized it picks up all sounds, but I think it adds to the expereince...the sound of breathe can be soothing. Enjoy!
How I write poetry
My process begins with a word, a phrase or sometimes an idea just waiting to be opened up and explored. It approaches with an urgency to take on any form of words for the sake of its own freedom. A word vine begins to grow in me spreading across my mind in my quiet times...usually before sleep. We join and begin a stroll through the garden of letters and begin spelling words with such thick and velvety texture, that it must be felt and expressed. Sometimes, they are cryptic messages with insights, secrets being told, tangled emotions unraveling.
"Stretch out!" I tell it.
I softly sing to it, "flow free little words, tell me the story."
One night, I decided to release it into the wild of a "practice watercolor paper" that didn't get very far, which in that moment was the closest thing to my throbbing right hand. I began in the middle which led me to turn the paper and continue filling as much blank space as I could. I scribbled, I became the scribe and out of the vein, it bled a poem. A writing that made what I did a "right-thing."
I usually sleep with it for a bit, maybe a night or two or more...
I place it near my bed and set it with a crystal. Once in a while, before bed, I'll read over it just to feel the words and hear my voice coat its meaning.
Then, it unwinds. It tells me a story. It describes things and a shape begins to form. A healing message? A claim? A declaration of my own truth? A bare revelation? Here, peeled and vulnerable it decides to spread out, not for acceptance, only for expression.
I am not a poet
If I said I was a poet, you would say, "how fascinating, spit me a line or two."
I would say, "I'm not that kind of poet."
Actually, I am not a poet at all. Only but a lover of words. I enjoy zig-zagging phrases and spelling backwards...not making sense most of the time, but that's my point. I drench words with silken sound, only to find my notebooks spread out for the moonlight. You see, these words describe the spaces in between these phrases. They are. They just are and I the hunter, begin to spend my nights setting traps of pen to capture but the slightest emotional response of a word, or two, or even two put together in ecstasy. Spinning nothingness, exalted reframe or the dearest and daintiest repose. They curl inside me and wait for a bursting moment of maybe just the right amount of light to emerge. And from my soul drenched mind they unfold meaning slanted in space and order "time" to fall to his knees. I worship these moments that connect the dots of my existence. But, I would never call myself a poet, for I am but a slave to the slander of the spellbound earthiness of stanzas upon haikus soaked in the morning mist. Praise to these words for their letters are a perfect sum of my completeness. But, I am not a poet...for the poet hasn't set me free and I willingly intend to just be...with words...with these words that chase after me.
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