Writing Poems — A Poem
He wanted to write poems, he told me.
Just write one too many,
Two a day, well, that’s my count,
But they just don’t come.
Where’s that damned muse?
I’ve read about her,
Each poet invokes her,
But I’ve never seen her;
Damn! No idea comes,
What am I to write? He shouted,
I smiled, he raved mad,
I let his anger take its course,
He kept muttering,
And then, at long last, piped down,
I left him
To his own cares!
NOTE: Writing poems must come naturally. You cannot force it. This poem is just an inner conversation with the poet inside me, not another person. But at the end of the poem, I learn that writing poetry must not be forced, or labored, it must be born out of the love to write. This is me getting up and leaving, the time when growth happens, and the poet just resigns and waits for inspiration to strike. “I left him to his own cares,” is just me waiting for a better time to write poems. But the journey itself is written as a poem. The mind can be impatient, but we can’t let it be that way. Poetry writing is an art, a sweet labor of love.