Sometimes, when I feel stuck working on a book, I’ll sidestep to a short story or some poetry. Sometimes into one of the other books in some state of written languishing on my hard drive. This last week, I’ve been wading into the poetry waters again.
I have a deep and abiding love for poetry. I can spend hours on a single line some times, working and reworking it until it’s perfect. Other times the words just drip straight out of my soul and stain the page permanently.
I have an entire bin full of pages of poetry, some dating all the way back to the 1980s. And sure, some of it is truly suctackular, but I never do seem to be capable of throwing it out. Each piece is a part of who I am, or who I used to be.
If you were to lay it all out in chronological order, you’d be able to watch me grow up, follow me from the angsty teen years to the angsty adult years, hear the changes in my voice as I got to really know myself. It’s almost a biography in poetry, if you will. My life story told in emotions and ideas, images painted with words.
This past weekend I spent some time immersed in those paintings, wandering down tear stained alleys and into sun drenched fields, gathering wildflowers before carefully putting the past back to bed.
Soon, I hope to be able to share with you what I found.
Until then, Readers, it is time for more coffee and the day job.