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.