WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO WRITE POEMS

(image: Throes of Creation, Leonid Pasternak)


I strain against an insistent rhythm,
Beat my brain against the padded cell of my skull,
Dive into a sucking sea of words to struggle,

Until the ecstasy of inspiration chokes me,
Until my breast bursts and I can inhale,
Until I am breathing it in and out.

Blood and water mingling down my side,
I drown in revelation and start to write,
Emptying myself of the sounds and meanings.

I give birth in the desert with heaves and cries
To my precious lonely baby.
She lies, naked and despised, but alive.

Do I lift her to my practical breast,
And raise her to be something? Or what?
No - I just hope someone who cares will find her.

I wander away, praying for another birth,
And To feel again the exquisite pain
Of writing another poem.

by Lori Martin, 6/12/15