For a while I was in this phase of writing poetry. It was a pretty intense phase, given I had never really written it before and then suddenly it seemed to be pouring out of me. At times I didn't even feel like it was me. Like somehow these words, this expression, was flowing into me and I was just the vessel through which it could be made manifest. Some of it I look back on and read and honestly can't believe I actually wrote it. But over the past year that river of poetry has slowly dried up. Even when I try to write something, it just feels so contrived. I had shared this with a friend not too long ago and he asked what had changed that had made me close myself off to receiving like I had in the past.
I definitely miss the feeling, the passion that would awaken me at night as the words started flowing in, not allowing me to sleep until I at least jotted some notes down on paper...constantly turning the light on, then off, then back on as more came to me. Restless nights, yet so exciting. I miss the feeling in my heart, the warmth that carried the expression down my arms and out my fingertips to the paper or keyboard. I miss the thrill of finishing a piece, the sense of completion and the desire to read it over and over again because my own poetry was speaking to me on such a deep level. I miss the feeling of vulnerability of reading it to another person, or sharing with the world on my blog, or with only myself because sometimes it's just way too personal.
Have I closed myself off? I really never felt like this was the case. It simply felt like something had changed. That I was meant to receive all I did during that time period (because honestly it helped me through an extremely challenging time in my life) and maybe now...well, now is just different. Now I think poetry has evolved for me. I sit outside on this fall day, caught up in experiencing the coolness of the air and the warmth of the sun on my skin; watching the journey of a single leaf, accentuated by clear blue sky, floating and spinning on it's way to the earth; sharing a moment with the dragonflies that land on my blanket, hopefully rescuing me from the mosquitoes; walking through crunchy leaves in my bare feet; laughing at the look on Gram's face as she exclaims that she almost stepped on a snake; tasting the spreading ecstasy of the leaves as they're slowly lit by the climbing sun. (I had to steal that last line from David Abram as he speaks of Van Gogh's paintings...it was just so incredibly sensuous!)
I am immersed in poetry. I have been absorbed into nature's artistic expression. Maybe poetry for me has evolved from a time to express it in words, to a time to experience it. Each moment is a poem. My life itself is my poetry and it speaks to me. I still like to return to my written poetry, those poems like pictures capturing moments in my life. But no longer is it a time for me to put poetic words to paper or screen, organized into rhymes or stanzas or flowing free, but to live the poetry that is always being received and held within my heart.
