Honestly, I'm nervous about this, about everything. I don't advertise my blogging, because I've worked long and hard on writing, and what does this show? Casual, lousy, stream-of-consciousness blather, that's what. And I wonder: can Mary Oliver write, and it not be poetry? Can Gaiman spill ink on paper, and mythos and wisdom not flower forth? Will Sylvia Plath's words ever not cinch a rope about my neck and drag me, smitten and smote over a wasteland of macabre beauty? So what is this drivel I spew, writing leftovers - why is my basest rhetoric like somersaults on broken glass sometimes?
It's dastardly pride, believing my writing is within earshot of such champions - but, Gaiman, are not dreams hopes, and echoes of hopes? Permit me this dream.
When someone stumbles upon this blog, these virtual scrawls, I cringe - could they not read something more spectacular, something polished that I've written? No. Because I don't share those, either.
Morning at the Peak
Long necked trees burst like swans
swimming downstream with the morning
light wings the way
mists like ships pass through
the susurrus of empty branches, calm
the white-tailed deer of dawn drinks.
milky, the mirror-pond sees only fog.
magician snaps a kerchief
gossamer valley, white rabbit
drawn from blackhat night
I, too, take wing and vanish
into the smoke
dig it! thanks for being willing to share it. and for what it's worth, i always feel the same before i post something
ReplyDeleteThanks, Jamie! Your work is so lovely - do you really? It can be a bit nerve-wracking, writing raw, but it's worth it.
ReplyDeleteThanks for reading :)