Supposing I were patient, this post would be about something else. Or it would not be at all.
To write, even in the midst of others is such a solitary act. I am not a person who has to find complete solitude to write, I am able, to a large extent, create it even as I sit in a room with others. I can move into a conversation and come back to myself with relative ease. Still, that return to self is just that, being alone with yourself for those thoughts that develop into structured language.
I find I am quite capable of putting together some wonderful bits and pieces and then the problem of patience, or I should say the lack thereof, seems to take hold of me. It would be easy to dismiss this as having to much motion, commotion, distraction or whatever around me. If it were distraction, then the solution would be to write in a more secluded place to isolate myself, to shut out anything that might constitute a diversion. Since I have written in complete solitude as opposed to my personal one I have describe above, and still experienced this same problem, I must conclude that where I am writing is not the issue.
Sometimes I think I am better off writing something very average in a first draft and then craft it into something better. It is those moments when I have something come together like Emeril Lagasse throwing garlic into the pot and "BAM!" Those moments that are usually followed by great consternation, which leads to frustration, which leads to the difficulty of trying put something equally as good with it.
Knowing full well that first and last lines of poems are almost always the most important, that they need to be strong statements, I can tell you I have countless first and last lines still awaiting middles. I am indeed an impatient poet.
Tag: writing and poetry
1 comment:
Robert~ thanks for your remarks. I can identify with severai things that you said.
I firmly believe that being a poet becomes a lifestyle of sorts. You begin to look at so many things around you differently.
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