When my cousin was about 6 she wrote a poem that was basically “poem I am this, poem I am that” with lots of different words in the place of ‘this’ or ‘that’. It was very long. The magic of her the freedom of this process, watching her making up poetry in the moment, turning what was in her head into tangible, creative, descriptive action has always stuck with me.
Poetry and I have a funny relationship because I always feel like I'm not trying very hard and I don't listen to any of the rules and I always assume I'm writing lyric. But these days, more and more often, there are words that just won't sit in sound. Don't want to be heard. Feel clumsy when sung.
In my quest to step into this other space that has been created for me in the last year or so of boyant creative freedom and autonomy, I'm letting these words exist just as they fall onto the page and not try to fit them into anything other form of being.
Yesterday I noticed that something someone said triggered a wound about being self indulgent or maybe just not being liked. It reminded me that these feelings used to make up a lot of my creative experience and a lot of my waking days. It also showed me that these days I can spot it, talk it out and reconfigure.
So here's another that arrived when I shook my head to empty some thoughts that day.
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