I published my first poem as a junior in college. It was a mature work: muscular in its language, with powerful imagery. I am still proud of it.
That poem came to me in a rush. I may have tinkered with the line breaks, but the words were perfect on arrival.
Just last week, another fine poem tumbled out of me in the early hours of the morning. Waking me from sleep, every line flowed with ease.
It was a gift.
Prose can be more difficult. Fretting over every word, every comma. The endless negotiation between sentences. The tug of war between lyricism and pragmatism.
So when my creative batteries need recharging, I often turn to poets: David Whyte, Mary Oliver, Yeats, Dickinson, Rumi, Wendell Berry.
As writers we can became tangled in our thoughts, halting in our words. We often second-guess ourselves.
Poetry has the power to release us.
That poem came to me in a rush. I may have tinkered with the line breaks, but the words were perfect on arrival.
Just last week, another fine poem tumbled out of me in the early hours of the morning. Waking me from sleep, every line flowed with ease.
It was a gift.
Prose can be more difficult. Fretting over every word, every comma. The endless negotiation between sentences. The tug of war between lyricism and pragmatism.
So when my creative batteries need recharging, I often turn to poets: David Whyte, Mary Oliver, Yeats, Dickinson, Rumi, Wendell Berry.
As writers we can became tangled in our thoughts, halting in our words. We often second-guess ourselves.
Poetry has the power to release us.
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