Over the last few years I have finally learned to trust my instincts when it comes to writing a poem. It is a confidence game.
The recipe for the alchemical mix, that makes a strong poem stand sturdily on all its legs, appears to be magical. And I suppose it is, like gathering the ingredients for casting a spell. One needs focus, hope, trust, faith and discipline. Talent doesn’t hurt either.
I discovered last fall that often, but not always, the impulse to take a picture is the same as in choosing an image for a poem.
As an example seeing this bald eagle from the water taxi on Elliot Bay a few weeks back not only made me desperately long for a telephoto lens, it also make it’s way into a poem you can view a draft of
here where I post most of my drafts so Andrew and I do not need to exchange paper copies of poems.
I’ve been thinking about impulses lately. I have them often around martyr type stuff and for a time I thought of becoming a nun. Now that I am working for a church it has become apparent that this idea was only an impulse, a useful escapist daydream. I am too much of a self-centered artist to ever be able to be as open and giving as one needs to be. It was a kind of convoluted way of feeling sorry for myself.
My awareness right now, surrounded by middle-aged women who have dedicated their lives to this community of faith is a reactive one. Eek! Please don’t let me go there, that world where one lives to serve only others.
It is not that I don’t wish for all sentient beings to be awakened, liberated, happy and free. I most heartily do!
It is just that my preference is to be behind the lens or holding onto a pencil as the world moves through me and together we can go looking for truth, beauty and the occasional frustratingly small bald eagle.
