Writing poetry
is much akin
to ravens picking apart
a skeleton.
One starts at the surface,
gently prodding the subject
until suddenly the fervor
of the moment takes hold.
Words tear away from the niche
in one’s brain like lean sinew rips
from the bone.
Bits and pieces are abstracted,
tenderized and processed
in the murderous cycle
of dismantling creation.
The writer is a scavenger
who circles above with pen and paper
jotting down vagrant conversation.
If fortunate, some memories will freeze
and preserve their effigy
for all to share and see.
This poet wishes to feed the birds,
and in turn, become fodder for worms.
such a great description of the process, I can totally relate to this!
Very much liked this!
Thank you, Mimsy! It’s a murderous cycle, this process called creation. Good thing poets have resilient minds – gone from its perch one day, right at home in its hollow the next. What fickle fortunes we tangle together in this nesting but nomadic endeavor 🙂
Cheers,
Tyler
Reblogged this on The ancient eavesdropper and commented:
Pick away at your brain, poets, for the darkness awaits a sharp pen to break and awake the moment’s rich matter.
So interesting. On my About page, I draw a similar metaphor, “Writing for me is a sweet and savage business – hefting raw slabs of emotion onto the block and crafting jumbles of words into descriptions for amorphous perceptions and feelings.”
Nice poem, thanks for sharing.
Thank you! It seems we share a similar peculiar process of picking apart diction. What scavengers we are right from the start! I look forward to following your blog as well. Hope you are having a good day 🙂
Cheers,
Tyler
Thanks, Tyler. Yes! Down to the bone for us! 😀