Friday, February 6

When I was sleeping, something was growing
pushing this way and that
somersaulting in my abdomen

a poem was growing
nascent lines and nascent phrases
forming, molding, building
out of my unconscious self

Words conceived from memories
from distant places traveled
from my homeland  of Chicago
from my residency in Florida

I awaken
the poem is still there
it moves, it shakes
I need it to be born

The time arrives,
and as an act of magic,
words come spilling
I write this poem

Shared at http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/

9 comments:

  1. Oh yes.. exactly like that the poems are formed.. I can wake half an hour early in morning and just write it down...

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  2. I love the movement in your poem-words always spill out of me on my pine needle path or under the stars. I imagine the moon laughing at me as I race home.

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  3. I used to cook up poems in my sleep rather often, but it hasn't happened in a while. It's nice when it does!

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  4. I like to sleep on prompts. It seems to help some how, like words and ideas marinating.
    https://georgeplaceblog.wordpress.com/2015/02/06/conception-of-creation/

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  5. ah... when mine come at night, if I don't get up, their gone... you're blessed

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  6. i have also often hear of artists having that kind of sensation, when working on a painting

    much love...

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  7. I love your birthing of a poem. Over the past year my birthing pains have been harsh and frequent.

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  8. Louise Erdrich compared the time before writing as a period of gestation. You have described this so well in your poem.

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  9. Shaken and stirred to life. Nice.

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