I ran across a poem posted on Seedlings in Stones for Random Acts of Poetry at The High Calling, asking us to post a poem on an area of personal struggle. I immediately thought of my lack of confidence as a writer. Somehow the image of folding came to me and the poem rather wrote itself. It's very rough, but I have too high a stack of essays to grade today to work on it more right now....
On Writing Poetry
This writing thing
edges into my consciousness,
folding in upon itself
in poor origami
barely resembling
the intended
swan-shape.
No.
It's muddled,
an amateurish attempt
wrinkled with
multiple tries
and second-guessing.
Shall I crumple it,
aiming for the trash?
Or spread it out
across the table,
take a brave breath,
and apply soul
to paper once again?
Copyright 2011 by Susanne Barrett
It's indeed a muddled attempt, but I hope it begins to express some of the trepidation I think many of us beginning poets feel as we try and try again on this journey of word-wrestling.
Folding once again,
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