This Love For Everyday Things, Part Natural

There's A Lot Of Unconscious Activity That Goes On I Think In The Composition Of A Poem.

The Name Of The Author Is The First To Go Followed Obediently By The Title, The Plot, The Heartbreaking Conclusion, The Entire Novel Which Suddenly Becomes One You Have Never Read, Never Even Heard Of, As If, One By One, The Memories You Used To Harbor Decided To Retire To The Southern Hemisphere Of The Brain, To A Little Fishing Village Where There Are No Phones.

There's This Pet Phrase About Writing That Is Bandied Around Particularly In Workshops About "finding Your Own Voice As A Poet", Which I Suppose Means That You Come Out From Under The Direct Influence Of Other Poets And Have Perhaps Found A Way To Combine Those Influences So That It Appears To Be Your Own Voice.

But Tonight, The Lion Of Contentment Has Placed A Warm Heavy Paw On My Chest.

Poems Are Not Easy To Start, And They're Not Easy To Finish. There's A Great Pleasure In - I Wouldn't Say Ease, But Maybe Kind Of A Fascinated Ease That Accompanies The Actual Writing Of The Poem. I Find It Very Difficult To Get Started.