I like writing poetry. It poses a nice challenge: it’s like you’re dreaming awake, somebody notices, asks you “what do you see?” and you have to tell them what you’re dreaming about in such a way that they can see it too. You share the landscape in your mind like you would a snow globe (minus the snow, most of the time). When I’m writing, I’m not really looking for a certain structure as much I am trying to focus and make some sense out of these watery visions. Words are like lenses that help me see things inside me in detail. Thus, when I look for words, I’m actually looking for polished glass. I’m looking for pieces that not only allow me to see better but also sound good when they tinkle or shatter. Besides, this process helps me get rid of that forlorn feeling that I so often get. Poetry drains rotten love out and leaves my heart as good as new.
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One reply on “On Writing Poetry”
this makes a couple of somewhat-related things come to mind:
From “La Inmortalidad”:
“El sentido de la poesÃa no consiste en deslumbrarnos con una idea sorprendente, sino en hacer que un instante del ser sea inolvidable y digno de una nostalgia insoportable.”
Suzanne Vega says, about writing her songs:
“it’s not just enough to write what you feel, it has to have some kind of form to it”. Or in your case, a ring, a sound.