A literary friend asked me a month or so ago if I was working on anything new. I said no. The river had been mostly dry for years, and life sometimes has a way of cluttering the mind and damming the flow. Nonetheless, she caused me to realize that I wanted to write again, and that was all that was necessary.
What firstly began happening was the surfacing of old poems that I had nowhere in print or online. They arose from the depths of mind like bubbles rising to the surface–it’s amazing how the mind can do this–and I transcribed them, so I have them again. After that, the flow of new material began, and what I thought might take a few years I now feel should only be a few months.
I’m now a third of the way through my second perfect-bound book (no title yet). This new collection sounds a lot like my first one, however I wanted to try something new, but I suppose one’s signature is one’s signature, and I’m just glad to be writing again.
Writing has benefits beyond creating, doing something productive with one’s time. I came to understand firsthand what a genuine problem the imagination can be if it isn’t channeled into something productive, because it will create its own world, breathe life into its own self as though simply entertaining the mind and essentially taking over, and it can truly make a mess of one’s relations with others. I find that my mind has quieted considerably since I began writing again. I’m sleeping better. My dreams are softer, more beautiful, and I’m back to awakening in the middle of the night to write lines down.
The only downfall is that the house gets a bit neglected at times, but nobody is complaining. I’m incredibly grateful for this feeling of clarity of mind and hope to have a book out in 2018.
Here’s one of this morning’s writings, written of the one who got me writing again:
“To a Friend Who Deserves a Poem”
Of Frigga’s yarn her days are spun,
Most blessed of the land,
And long I sought beneath the sun
To find myself a friend.
She emanates a bygone age,
A golden frame of time,
With sonnets sung unto the page
Of poised iambic rhyme;
But strong within as strong can be:
Of fire and ancient earth,
And truest of nobility
And far-extending worth;
Refined of mind but not afraid
To muddy up a hand,
Nor pluck a chicken, sink a spade
To cultivate the land,
Nor serve within to see her clan
As glad as glad can be;
And then, with gathered herbs in hand,
She’ll brew a cup of tea.
(My first title, Villanelles & Varia, is available at Amazon or through me: firstname.lastname@example.org.)