So I wrote a poem. It doesn’t matter what. It was 62 words long. It was terse and seemed to have the energy of sitting on a nerve.
I tweeted that “it’s one thing to use poetry as therapy. it’s another to not stop there & keep yourself impaired, rhinestoned in words & applause.”
I returned to it, writing into the gaps, rather like an organic glosa with myself, going rapidly and slowly for the next few hours.
It said when it was done by the sensation of lancing. It ended at 2431 words.
I understand a few things, of admissions to myself of what I begrudged and clung to. Admitting there’s something clenched in the hand is the first part of opening the hand again.
In Writing Down the Bones Natalie Goldberg, “watch yourself. Every minute we change. It is a great opportunity. At any point, we can step out of our frozen selves and our ideas and begin fresh. That is how writing is. Instead of freezing us, it frees us.” (p. 34) Depending on what you do next. She went on to describe a writer giving a reading when keen and words had edge and the same poems years later. The real life is in writing, not rereading.
I could back with the posture to gain, open-ended, or to glean, tight-ended. I could go thru and cherry pick for sequinned serifs but is isn’t necessary to recoup and reuse and get back the invested time or be thrifty to recycle it all again. It’s an option but not a mandate. That recombing might yield something but why. It would give the sense that the purpose of living is literary instead of literary serving to live in a more thriving way.

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