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I write poetry
I write poetry for leisure, for pleasure.
I treasure the rhythms that appear as each word makes its way to
the page, its stage, to perform. To take its place under the arch. To
strut its stuff. To woo, wow, show the audience another way to say
what I must say.
Im not sure if its a muse or just amusement that makes me do it.
It just suits my style, makes me smile as the word plays drip from
the ends of my fingers and linger in my mouth as I compose. The
rose really can smell sweeter when you name it anew in a poem.
On the page my poems slumber, unmoved and unmoving, only
truly awoken when spoken. When held in the mouth of someone
who cares how they gallop or canter or trot across space to dance
on the drum of your ear. The vibration of speech makes the air that
we breathe, truly seethe with significance, or not.
Good vibrations are needed to make the words sing, to hear is to
feel. To see is not real for my poems.
The poems that I write create meaning without meaning anything
too deep. They leap and spin and fly when well said.
Im smitten by the poetry bug. I hug myself with glee when the
rhymes climb sublime from the depth of my mind.
I find myself wanting to say it again say it again cause I can, so I
do if I choose.
I lose myself often in the act of creation. Its a fixation, a
fascination, no relation to sneezing, but longer, softer, slower,
deeper, smoother.
Rap, dub, doggerel, slam, I am caught by the bug, infected by the
blight. I must write another poem or my head will explode with the
pressure of words.
I find myself needing a fix of the rush of success of completion of
of something I cant quite put a word to, but tomorrow Ill try.