Convenient Memory
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People often ask how it is that I came to write poetry. I can honestly answer I just start writing and it just happens out that way. Sometimes words come to me in my sleep, which I need to put to paper immediately, flashlight in hand then and there in the middle of the night. Other times I merely put pen to paper and with inspiration or not a simple or complex idea just happens. As Mr. Cronkite put it, "That's the way it is..." and as ridiculous as that may sound to some, I'm not too awfully concerned with my critics. Folks may believe it or not, but then the question would arise, just what do...
People often ask how it is that I came to write poetry. I can honestly answer I just start writing and it just happens out that way. Sometimes words come to me in my sleep, which I need to put to paper immediately, flashlight in hand then and there in the middle of the night. Other times I merely put pen to paper and with inspiration or not a simple or complex idea just happens. As Mr. Cronkite put it, "That's the way it is..." and as ridiculous as that may sound to some, I'm not too awfully concerned with my critics. Folks may believe it or not, but then the question would arise, just what does it take to make a writer or poet anyway? There are as many answers to that as there are those writers and poets, and as different as the people themselves. There are no set rules to all of this, and I suppose it is the reason I love it so. No particular set time or place for inspiration to come as it can happen to anyone; just some are more likely to capture that thought or idea... the ability to seize the moment so to speak, while many others let it slip by. Just as easily as these thoughts come to us they are just as easily forgotten... and I like to think these go to that place where unwritten words live. Hopefully it is somewhere lonely but beautiful where serenity abounds and those lost but none the less creative thoughts linger for an eternity. Perhaps this is heaven. There may also be an equal but opposite place for hateful and despondent words or thoughts end up, this likely being hell where misery and grief thrive. I have in the past captured some of these desolate thoughts usually when I'm brooding over something that matters not, although I really don't care for this sort of prose, turning more towards poetry that says it like it is, putting people and situations in perspective in the world as I see it with the idea to be portrayed. Hopefully this will come out as my own style of the English language. Good, bad or ugly this is me, and these things I've managed to unlock from the depths of my mind... that window of opportunity to my soul.
