Write a Poem For a Poem
A Gift to the Poetry that I’ve come to Love.
I leaned against the wall of the library poetry hall.
I picked up the pen,
Hovered above the notebook page,
But the ink doesn’t know what to say.
Willing to write? Yes.
But didn’t know what to write.
Should I write about the time I got lost in a jungle of thought?
Or should I write about the time I swam off in a river of imagination?
I have inspiration.
Too much, is my problem.
And then the idea struck.
Why don’t I write about what I cannot write about.
But I realised I don’t have to write anymore at all,
As I already wrote a poem, about trying to write a poem, in that library poetry hall.
I wrote this poem when I was fourteen. Helped get me into the local Arts High program for poetry. In hindsight, I hate it. It’s not awful. But not great. But that’s the point of editing, right?
Write a Poem For a Poem
A Gift to the Poetry that I’ve come to Love.
I lean against the wall
of the library poetry hall.
Pen hovers above page,
Ink doesn’t know what to say.
Willing to write?
Don’t know what to write.
Lost in a jungle of thought?
Swimming in a river of imagination?
Too much inspiration
is my problem.
Why don’t I write about
what I cannot write about.
I like this version better. It’s vague and concise at the same time. The present tense as opposed to past tense pulls a reader in. And it sounds like the voice of someone who not only learned to write poetry but learned to write it well for six years.
Just one last edit. The title.
For Poetry
I lean against the wall
of the library poetry hall.
Pen hovers above page,
Ink doesn’t know what to say.
Willing to write?
Don’t know what to write.
Lost in a jungle of thought?
Swimming in a river of imagination?
Too much inspiration
is my problem.
Why don’t I write about
what I cannot write about.
It feels incomplete though.
But that’s tomorrow’s problem. After a well-rested night of getting lost in a jungle and swimming in a river.
