it goes something like this
I tell myself I neither have the time nor the desire to write anymore. I tell myself, “If this seems like a lie, because I’ve said it one thousand times, so be it. This is time number one thousand and one. It’s significant. It’s serious. It’s meaningful.” And then I start to obsess about an image and a couple of words I’ve attached to it. It’s the death of my anti-writing conviction every time.
I’ve been spending my days this week pouting (mostly), sleeping (lots), exercising (some) and floundering with a project I agreed to do for PTO. I have read no poetry. I have done no revisions. I have thought very little about writing at all. And then, like always, a little something creeps in and I almost have no choice but to write it down.
Just because the ideas are persistent doesn’t mean they are good. It just means writing things down is what I’ve trained myself to do. And once it’s written down, I can’t resist the tug to play with it a little bit. Poems are born this way. These crying drafts in their infancy beg for my attention. I am their mother as sure as I’m mother to three human children. It’s more natural for me to mother poems than sons, actually. It’s nature’s brilliant design, I suppose, that I don’t have the choice to abandon them. Not the kids. Not the poems. They’ll get raised somehow.
The newest baby — small and weak but happy to be here — is at “i am maureen” (leave a comment if you need the password).