On the bookcase behind the desk in my office, I have a figurine of a gnarled tree that looks like an old man holding a book of fairy tales. This is my Poet Tree, a reminder that I was a poet before I was anything else.
I don’t understand these people who spend days (or weeks) agonizing over a perfect word for their poem. If you ask me, it’s a little pretentious. If you can’t find the right word, use a different one until it does. And if it never comes, then it probably wouldn’t have fit anyway.
Poetry has always been a hit or miss thing with me. It either comes or it doesn’t. An idea for a poem comes to me, I sit down and write, and it’s done. None of this locking myself in an attic or heartfelt sighing for me.
I don’t believe in forcing a poem. If I did, I’d be buried under a mountain of it. Sometimes a line or two will stick in my head and I’ll write them down and keep going. Before I know it, I have a poem. A few times I’ve been over in the poetry forum on AW and one of the challenges appealed enough to me to participate. Seriously, if you enjoy reading/writing poetry, check the poetry forum out HERE
Like paintings, for me poetry is a subjective thing. It either speaks to me or it doesn’t; I either like it or I don’t. I will not say I love a poem (or a painting) just because it is the work of Famous Person.
For me, the poetry muse is the most fickle muse of all.