Hard to Write
Poetry is hard for me to write.
First I must explore some lost emotion:
once found, identified, and stamped,
I struggle to uncoil its tight twisting.
Like a body steadily breaks down proteins,
I find what drives it, turns it, engulfs it with flames,
then douse the rising passion with cool reason.
I prod the wet ashes with a finger
until an image starts to form—
a bird, a breeze, a bloody field—
then slowly sigh purgation;
my poem is reborn.
Poetry is hard for me to write.
Before my pen begins its loving dance,
a figure arises fully grown in my mind;
I never recognize her at first,
choosing war instead of studying at her side.
Only as she bursts to freedom and I rest in her mercy
do I come to understand:
before I sung her delicate symphony,
my poem was reborn.
Poetry is hard for me to write.
My lover tells me I fill pages in the middle of the night,
but I wake and read poems written in an alien language.
I slave for months to learn the words and hear the verse.
My poem will be born!