Sunday, March 27, 2011


The notebook I found today has many, many poems, but they are really fragments which require a lot of work before they can become poems. I had a headache all day, so I wasn't able to get as much work done as I would have liked.

I can't force the poems. They usually have to come like some strange visitation, when I leave myself behind.

Maybe I can glean something from it. I don't know.

I am sure tomorrow will go better.

Clinging and/or letting go seems to be the theme of much of what I had written, and there's always a sense of mystery, the moon, pebbles, dust and emptiness. Fact is, I had all day to write and I was forcing it too much I think. It's best when we let go and let the muse take over.

I'm thinking of the serenity prayer tonight, thankful my headache has finally gotten better. I will listen to some more music and see if that helps me write a little something. I sent a lot of poems out, but I am determined to send more, and I think maybe I'm putting a bit too much pressure on myself to produce.

Here are some lines from the journal which I find a little interesting. I will just collect them for now. Make a collection of phrases or something. H

One pansy greets the day wide petals, windmill of glory

Meditation, he said, must not be done while your body digests

He said the moon was a hole where light poured out of the universe.

Our senses betraying us the whole day.

Dawn arrived for 3 weeks, an impassioned miracle.

My hands remain empty.

A thousand doors open to imagination's sorrow.

Sometimes the sun's flush cups the horizon, despite.

Her inheritance now these strange firs.

Listening interrupted the non-stop bereavement of the self.

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