Writing Blind
I always hope it will be scrupulous and lively
the tender trap of an ordinary Heaven, writing
piecing together old wounds in my thinking suit
an old mushroom-hued nubby cardigan sweater
I strive for it to be devotedly comprehensive and strident
every single page cluttered with ample prose and poems
created inside the confines of my own private organized
chaos
my stomach tied in the most intricate of stubborn knots
and the silence so deafening that to breath is impossible
writing blind toward an ending is an indescribable ecstasy
it is an enforced soberness to arrive at the conclusion
to have left so much of your private self behind in plain
sight
the goal: to be a fine practitioner of word-molding magic
the hope: to morph from clumsy tenderfoot to the premiere
suite
the way: coached in language by the Supreme who have come
before me
the struggle: to isolate the ownership of memory and
make-believe
the reward: sensitive curation of intimate markings
touching others
I always trust it will be honourable and animated
the hapless adventures of my pen moving across a fated
page
a demand for love to disarm the weight of the world and
suspend
into the fabricated fortunes, fortitudes, follies and
fouls of fiction
I endeavor for it to be forged with unceremonious courage
all tenacity, all mettle, all nerve and valor, audacious
and dogged
immune to the clamor and distraction of both praise and
criticism
to be able to bookmark my beginnings and focus on the
process
I arrive, as imagined, empty-handed to every occasion ready
to toil
I tell myself: ‘You are a woman of infinite talents. Get
to work.’
and, I write.
**
Writing a poem about writing while aching to write anything
other than a poem.
It’s all work. It’s all creative.
Don’t sweat the small stuff, yeah?
Got it.
In propinquity,
Nic
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