A poem writes itself
I merely follow
As it leads me
through the shadows
A poem seeks itself
And the light
I'll surrender …I write
A poem finds a way to be heard-
I try to remember each word from my
mouth to my ears to my hands
Then, to the world's
A poem finds a voice
I become, pen and paper
A poem makes a choice
I, the ghostwriter
a progression of thoughts, in beautiful parallel structure. A poem writes... A poem seeks itself... A poem finds a way... A poems find a voice... A poem make a choice. It is as if you dropped a pebble in a pond, and the rings spread, til you reach the conclusion. It works very well; and we as poets certainly know the truth of it.
the wisps of ideas are all intermingled the completed thoughts aligning themselves with only the genius - the talent of the sensitive writer - the poet - to put them in place in such a way that those words evoke from the reader the response that began in the mind of the writer. The buffet that pleases the taste comes not from the individual ingredients but from the arrangement by the poetic chef
Sometimes the poem requires all the skill one possesses; and occasionally more than that; but at least we all have each other for a lifeline. This is a fine example of a beautiful poem having written itself through your hand.
Sonya, I soooooooooooo get this one. Have you read 'The Tai of Pooh by Benjamin Hoff? ' In it the author writes: 'I just let the book write itself and keep up as best as I can'. I believe that the creative voice inside us is a collective one. If we can 'surrender' to life in all its subtlety and all it's amazing variety, we will hear that little voice inside. I wrote a poem called 'New Poems' that has a similar theme. Your 'ghostwriter' metaphor is perfect. Delightful piece. Love, Allie ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥
Lovely poem. When the words to the poem are flowing, you are the one that gives their inspiration its life and voice, through your writing. Very nice :)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
The true poet is indeed compelled to write. Your last lines are delightful. Always your friend, Sandra