Fragments in Flow
As I devour the words of singular minds;
Hemingway, Marquez, Kafka, and find,
A torrent of writing springs inside,
Words like wisps and fragment-like sentences,
A poem screams caught mid-glide.
The lines form like little flowers,
Too fragile to be picked, too small to be tricked,
Into sentences, into poetry, so the more I try,
I find they’re dead before they can really die.
And yet, here, I ply them;
No sense of structure, no formal training,
Just a gush of thoughts like it’s constantly raining,
Inspiration is flow, the unselfconscious kind,
Evading capture of a desperate mind.
The kind that wants glory, but is scared of failure,
The kind that wants an audience, but is afraid of censure,
Dance like no one’s watching they say,
Write like no one’s reading, try as I may,
There is no flow now, it has now decayed,
Into a paltry show of vanity, I sense dismayed.
The minds that inspired now witness disappointed,
An insecure poet with a poem that’s disjointed.
I pause, I edit, I will the verse into shape,
Pecking at the lines, wringing the nape,
Of its neck into a shape that seems writerly,
Into a form that’s more orderly,
So I can convince myself of a skill that’s there, only,
I can’t find the courage to live on it,
But the joy, when it flows, I find it,
Gushes and rushes like a swell of lightness,
Caught in my chest with a happy tightness,
Now this flow is born in repetition,
through repeated deliberation, almost meditation;
On the desire to strive,
To touch greatness, to feel them alive.
So my gratitude to Camus and Calvino I must convey,
And to the others too, for granting this moment today.