dust and ashes...

I woke up this morning – after a really bad dream about poets, of all things – and had these three questions zipping through my head:

Do poets publish too often?

Why do poets publish?

Why do poets write?


… Then, after one cup, I went to Jilly Dybka’s Poetry Hut Blog and read this marvelous article:

It doesn’t matter what you think about your work. This is one of the weirdest lessons a writer has to learn, that the emotions that push you to write better, with greater accuracy, truth, verve, wit; the despair that makes you cast your eyes to the ceiling and then plunge back to the keyboard; the running pleasure of one good word being followed by a better; the glee as you set a time bomb ticking in the text; the glorious megalomania with which you set out to describe and yes! conquer! the! world! ... are all completely redundant once the piece is finished.
. . . .

          – Anne Enright, from “Final Thougths,” The Guardian,
         5 July 2008

This is the moment when lines that span the universe cross each other. All things connecting. All things making perfect sense.

It is, of course, important to note that every stage of a writer’s life is layered with certain emotional colors. That is such a wonderful thought.

In my 20’s, my colors were metallic reds and blues with splats of yellow all throughout. But, they weren’t my reds and blues (maybe the yellows were mine – I can’t be certain)… They were someone else’s. I only thought they were mine.

These days, years later, it’s burgundy … deep & rich & satin. It’s not perfect – not even close – but it’s mine.