We all write poems; it is simply that the poets are the ones who write in words. ~ John Fowles
I come from a long line of writers and poets and while I will never rival Emily Dickenson or Robert Frost, I also like to express myself in writing whenever inspiration appears. Here are some of the best examples of my writing. I hope you enjoy them.
"Please pardon the state of my room" she said. "For I fear that it has become cluttered with my thoughts, disguised though they may be as trinkets and junk. Thus, the overabundance that decks my shelves and litters every surface is more than it seems. This - a memory taken form. That - a beautiful moment that can be held in the hand. And this, fragile and impractical as it may be, has been chosen simply for its expression of the delicate, lovely grace that I long to possess. And so, dear friend, please forgive me my nooks and my crannies that runneth over and make yourself comfortable among the artifacts of myself."
The muse came to me in the night, as muses often do. He came, not as the white clad goddesses of Greek myth, but as an Incubus... exciting, inciting, seductive, maddening and unrestrained. He roused in me the desire... the need... the primal drive for creation and I succumbed. He fled with the sunrise. An inconstant lover, leaving me exhausted in the rumpled chaos of my disquieted bed to seduce countless others and making no promises to return. In the coming weeks, I became aware of his parting gift. My mind lay swollen and throbbing with the new life within it, impregnated as I was with the seed of inspiration. Unlike my sisters, with their distended stomachs, I was not with child, but rather with idea. I endured my time as an expected artist fitfully, uncomfortably, longing to bring it forth and be done with this invasion of my being. But such things come in their own time and cannot be rushed. It latched onto me, drawing its nourishment from my being and grew. I woke in the middle of the night, with creative juices released and flowing. I groaned at the late hour but child birth waits for no convenient time. I rose from my bed and labored to bring forth the fruit of my mind. When finally in the streaks of rising sunshine, I beheld my brainchild and wondered at my part in the miracle of creation.
I want to be unashamedly strong. To revel in the strength that I know is within me and not be reviled for it. To choose not between my strength and my friendships but to choose instead, to love those who would love me for my fire and convictions and not in spite of them. I want to find those whose passions and strength burn as hot as mine own, who can stand up to my heat and not be consumed. I want to revel in the strength of others. To warm myself by their fires but not be obscured by the flames.
I want to unleash the maelstrom of my mind upon my lover and have him not seek shelter from it but to stand, unafraid, with his face turned to the clouds and feel the raindrops of my thoughts fall upon his face. I want to see him stand firm and strong though the fury may wash all before it and when the floods rise about his feet, I want to watch as he unconcernedly wades in my essence and finds refreshment in it.
I want to match my strength against his own. To feel him match me, blow for blow. To not hold back for fear of crushing him beneath me and to not restrain his arm for fear of not being able to meet its power. To test my mettle against him. To know myself to be worthy of him and him of me and for both grow in each other, through each other.
I want to howl, to hunt, to hunger, to rage, to lust, to scream. To walk the night with fruitful wakefulness. To collapse in righteous exhaustion and sleep the fierce sleep of one who has truly lived.
I want to be unrepentedly weak, to walk the quiet, shady places and speak only in whispers. To hide my face in shy, shadow-steeped silences and to be cherished as the lovely, fragile things are. I wish to lay my palm against the ancient oak and to dip my hand in the torrent's flow and know my place in the world. To consort with the primeval and be comforted to know that my meager strength need not be sufficient.
I want to succumb to my every passion and not stem the tide of my humors. To immerse myself in emotion without restraint or apology and bid farewell to Spartan sacrifice and discipline. To gratify my every whim and in giddy abandon, to want, to demand, to gain. I wish to harness the simple, unspoiled greed of a child and be free in my desires. I want to dance as David danced in abandon and in praise. I wish to surrender to my tears, to weep, to wail, and in sackcloth clad, see my stockpile of sorrow spent in great, cleansing sobs, hording not one drop for a rainy day.
I want to lie with my lover in brideful submission. And with innocence reclaimed touch him with hesitant, halting hands and be touched in return. I wish to be led down the paths of my flesh and discover the valleys and the high places of my body. I want to learn pleasure and passion anew. To know and be known with coaxing, claiming caresses until I cry out in the night.
I want to sigh, to sing, to gasp, to keen. I want to reenter the Garden. To know neither good nor evil and to become as a child once more.
Woe is the plight of the warrior's wife. My love has gone to war. He marches to fields where only he may stand and faces foes that only he may know. Fierce are the silent skirmishes. Of his wounds, there is no trace. Untold, the tales of glory against foes that wear his face.