a poem that builds itself

“Ode to the Poem That Built Itself”

 

 

It begins with a small stir-

a notion barely awake,

lifting its head as if the air

had asked it to begin.

 

One notion nudges another,

and soon they travel in pairs,

trading weight, trading colour,

finding new shapes in the drift.

 

Lines gather like quiet workers

around a long bench,

each adding a sliver of craft

to whatever the last one left behind.

 

And from that steady labour

a shape begins to rise-

not sudden, not declared,

just the slow gathering of parts

that recognise each other.

 

It rises as if urged from within-

each part finding its place

with a quiet certainty,

gaining shape the way a spark

catches and grows

until the whole form stands,

advancing with each opposing step.

 

 

 

 

 

 

.

Reviews

[FlatDaddy]

My friend, you have deftly described what goes on inside my head! I confess I often do not know what I will write when I reach for my keyboard, and I sometimes find myself going to the dictionary to discover the meaning of some word or phrase I have written! Oh, sometimes it's just gibberish, but other times I smile and nod, then feel myself melding with the page, and sail away for awhile, not thinking, per se, but feeling my way forward with idea and purpose rather than words, treading a path that pulls me forward through a growing forest of text.
Sorry, I got a little carried away, for bit; I have not had any serious conversations with anyone about this. This is novel to me. redd's poem opened my mind a little, and I read all the other reviews before I said anything; but I found Jacob's and John's words especially dovetailed with the knowledge I gained from Bricky's poem and my own nascent thoughts. Okay, I've begun to rave now, and I thought about deleting my comments because they sound a bit idiotic, but damn it, that's what goes on in my head! And now I'll shut up. Nice piece, though, my trouble-making friend.

[redd Brick Keshner]

Yes, yes. Yes! Trouble is the name of the game, a poetic dilemma and s challenge at times. 🕊️🙏🏻

[ETERNITY]

Great reviews! I've often wondered what goes on in that head! ;)

[redd Brick Keshner]

Oh yes, much goes on in that noggin, which isn’t flat at all! When they were younger the kids of the family used to call me flat-cat. (aside)

[Curly Grace]

This feels like watching a poem wake up on its own. each line arriving quietly, recognizing where it belongs. Such a gentle, true reflection of how writing gathers itself into being.

[redd Brick Keshner]

Like a tableau, almost! Thanks for such a lovely movement and image🕊️🙏🏻

[Thomas W Case]

You make this come to life. Superb work.

[redd Brick Keshner]

Thanks, Thomas. That is so good to hear 🙏🕊️

[jacob erin-cilberto]

I relate because my poems build themselves...I cannot take credit for what I write.

[redd Brick Keshner]

And that affirms our existence 🕊️🙏🏻

[John the Baptist]

Nice description of the creative process here. I have had them emerge in just this manner. Let them take their time. It's the end product that matters.

[redd Brick Keshner]

Thanks, John. Most appreciated and glad to have your much valued words on my page. 🙏🏻🕊

[Michael Sun Bear]

“Just the slow gathering of parts that recognize one another”. I may borrow that idea sometime. I am sure you have run across a certain type of poem that, for me, is extremely irritating and frustrating. Apparently in an attempt to entertain, to fascinate, to hold the reader’s attention, the author had made a mental list of unusual, uncommon, rarely used words then strung them together haphazardly, the writer’s intent incomprehensible. The meaning completely lost. In those poems the parts don’t seem to recognize one another. Neighboring words are alien to one another. The result is incohesion, confusion.

[redd Brick Keshner]

A type of poem that I’ve been known to annoy others with! So, yes, I’m sure to have run across that in my own backyard 🙃🤪🙏🏻🕊

[Michael Sun Bear]

Not so! Let me feed you some lines from a poem I will not name, just now posted on another site:read moreNot so! Let me feed you some lines from a poem I will not name, just now posted on another site:
“The roof listens not as sound heard, but as a subtle pull on the eardrums, a change in blood…..
Smoke, if it existed, would rise in awkward, collapsing squares….
The snow, a constant formula for cold that refuses to be solved…..
On this ridge of chalk, the sea waves tear not at stone but at the logic of a shadow….
My braggart thought is a thin sheet of glass…..
Terracotta landscape is built from memory dust….
I am an untethered clock hand…..”

And I am the walrus! Get the idea?

[redd Brick Keshner]

Oh, nice (raises eyebrow) 🕊️🙏🏻