Inamorata

Inamorata

I am your Inamorata, kingly lover

pledged to your handsome allegiance

spread wide open to receive your

gratified love

I am your Moonling, imperial emperor

crazed for your compassionate remarks

self-purposed & persistent in pursuit of

pure morality

I am your Muse, judicious truth-seeker

etched into your soft unspoiled propriety

word by carefully written word to gently

arouse humanity

I am your Goddess, Eros of the earth

enamored by the description of your

masculine circumstance inch by inch for

unlawful pleasure

I am your Revenant, regal ruler

anticipate a languid love interruption

but know I will always return to your

fair sovereign

we dance while the sentinels  swoon

we sleep with our limbs entwined

I am your Inamorata

be my Everlasting

my Empire

**

How this poem was written:

I collected a handsome bounty of my favorite writing paraphernalia that included a new blue-inked Paper Mate pen, some blank sheets of paper for scribbling notes and a cup of green tea.  With my dictionary and thesaurus handy as well as a giant wall lined with dust jackets and photos, posters and souvenirs to inspire, I went to it.  All free hand. No typing. No mouse.

The computer that lives in my writing room is broken.  As much as I miss it, it’s also a blessing.  It allows me to steal long stretches of quiet time, free of a glowing screen, a plethora of distractions and the urge to procrastinate.  Without the use of technology as a crutch and a diversion from creativity, I created an environment for myself conducive to writing.  My writing tools, a touch of mood music, my inspirations and solitude brought me to the end of this poem.

I also made certain to leave my internal editor in the hallway, closing the door and shutting her out.  I didn’t want to risk her influence or have her censor my thoughts, make me doubt myself or what spilled out onto the page.  There were moments when she wriggled the door handle but I ignored her pleas to enter and continued to write.

It was pacific, idyllic and late at night.  That is when I do my best work, when I achieve the most success. 

It’s an indulgent poem, endemic with love and undertones of passion and reverence, inspired by nothing more than a word, its title.  It flowered easily rescinded reluctantly.  Charmed, I’m sure.  When I finished a rough drafted, my scrawl reaching far outside of the designated margins, I felt elated, exhilarated, energized.  That’s the best part of this writing thing, the release, the peace, the excitement, the creativity, the solitude, the unknown.  It truly sustains me (something that I say ad nauseum) and I could wax poetic about the process forever.

It is a pleasure to write, for myself first and then for you.  I’ve uttered these words a few times over the past week to fellow scribes, “Hoarding a gift from the rest of the word is criminal.”  Words were meant to be shared and celebrated, to be read and lifted up off of the page into the atmosphere, enunciated, pronounced; so profound. 

If you write, do all of that.  Allow yourself the space and time to create without distraction.  Turn off your TV, your cellphone, the outside world.  Tune in to yourself, your intuition, your spirit and your heart and magic will ensue, pure unadulterated magic.  Silly rabbits to not believe in magic, so easily created by holding a pen and making a pretty mess on a blank page.

/stimulated rant

Happy Tuesday.

In propinquity,

Nic