Musings on personal growth, books, motherhood, writing, and more. "Every hour is saved from that eternal silence, something more, a bringer of new things." – Tennyson
This is a poem I “wrote” (merged together) a few years ago as part of a poem sequence about a writer’s tension between the desire to create original art and the necessity of relating to the art that’s gone before.
Because I could not learn to write,
Writers kindly came to me
For I select my own society
I celebrate past writers, and sing myself
For what they are I shall be too
Bright stars, would I were as splendid as thou art!
I will go and catch a falling star
While the evening is spread out against the sky
I will go and make my visit
Words, words, everywhere
next to of course atoms
The world is charged with the grandeur of words
Let me count the ways
Little words, who made thee?
Let me not to the marriage of true words
Batter my writing, three-syllabled words
‘Twas wrillig, and the slirthy woves
When I have fears that I may cease to write
I hear a Fly buzz—in my ear,
“Look on your works, ye writers, and despair!”
Quoth the writer, Nevermore!
When to the sessions of sweet silent writing
Words walk in beauty, like the night
That is all I know on earth and all I need to know
And then my heart with pleasure fills up fast,
And dances with the writers of the past.
So long as my fingers can write, and my eyes can see
To strive, to seek–to write—and not to yield.
The writers’ lessons are lovely, sharp, and true
But I have practicing to do,
And years to go before I write something truly new.
Still I write.