Let yourself be danced.
—Augusta Kantra
The poem sits down to be written.
Instead, it stares at the bay.
There’s a highway in the distance
that could take it all the way to California.
The poem doesn’t want to go to California.
It wants to be present, just here,
on the sandy bank beside the driftwood.
It wants to find its inner poem.
It wants to get out of its own way,
to obey its emerging form.
Instead, it watches the tall grass
getting danced by the wind.
It sighs. The poem wants to know
what it doesn’t know yet.
And the poem wants to be good.
Dammit. It tries to lower its standards,
then judges, compares and tries to fix itself.
It lists. It sits cross legged till its legs
fall asleep. It is a book of sorrows,
a tree of anxiety, a wave of failure.
It’s a cage of empty lines. How
did it get into this straight jacket?
The poem gives up. It stares at the bay.
Watches the grasses sway. Notices
how the wind blows its hair,
lifts its hands. The poem doesn’t know
why it’s weeping. In that moment,
the poem is danced.
From the very first line, I was touched. “The poem sits down to be written.” The acknowledgement of self as poetry, in motion, grabbed my heart. Nostalgia.
To, “Instead, it stares at the bay.” Always looking outward, to the distance. Which could go on forever, yet, the depth you find right here. Right now. In the present, within this poem….searching. Such beautiful rhythm to be found. I stumbled upon your words, just in time. So beautiful and resonant. I thank you deeply for flowing into these words, truly.
Thank you for this very thoughtful comment … oh this crazy practice of poeming, of becoming the poem.