..there I was without a face
and it touched me.
The sleep god, himself, appears
and slips the reigns into my hand
nodding -- that I must go the old way. Cloaked
on horseback through the evening gate.
The roan stays quiet and still
while Morpheus, appareled in his peasant's shirt
and vest (his boots strewn with pollen),
stresses -- the poem must find me, by scent
and instinct; not what poses in the glass. That writer
wearing her same, familiar brand.
Like a seamstress the journey
alters our path. Voice and viewpoint change
and the change remains unknown
even to one's self --until the song (and if the song)
restless and readied for perfection
pursues its mistress. Much like a cat
searching for a sorceress to serve, or spirit
seeking a lamp to illume.
The subconscious draws me in
draped in dusk and smelling of want.
Those white flowers on the archway
soft, poisonous with expectation.
This poem was partially inspired by Pablo Neruda's poem "Poetry" where he declares that he did not pursue poetry, it sought him out and brought him into its fold at a certain age. He begins with the linesAt that age, poetry arrived
in search of me
And so I thought how often as a writer I am always chasing or seeking to write that "quintessential poem"
that embodies all the wise and perfect qualities that will enable me to say I have written something beyond my usual voice/style/capability. And always find myself saying, "If it's not this poem it will be the next". But the more I pursue it the more that "poem" eludes me. So I have come to realize , as much wiser and scholarly poets/artists/ have expressed, the poem cannot be hunted down or written by specific order or deadlines. It must come , on its own, to the writer. Like a spirit, it will find its vessel and as writers we must be patient and wait. We must listen and accept the intervals of silence between the inspiration and the delivery of that inspiration through prose or verse. And the "ultimate poem" for each striving individual might not be a singular thing-- but a few poems that emerge out of many but are spaced months or years apart. The poem will know when its author is of the right age, place in time, circumstance, and open-mindedness to accept the theme or idea. And perhaps, the risk in dreaming of writing this kind of poem is the emotional high and low, the expectation that it will happen no matter what/when ;and then if doesn't materialize within a certain amount of anticipated time, there is the depression. Maybe, the best thing is to simply move with the current or "go with the flow". Let things be and it will happen when and if it is meant to occur.