Was cleaning out my files a few days ago. Came across a couple of pieces of poetry I had written, never finished, and had completely forgotten. When I get stuck about something to write about, I often find myself writing about writing. That’s what those bits of poetry were. Decided to play with one of them, tweaking and snipping, and reshaping some of it. Left it for a few days and then went back and played with it a bit more. Although the subject matter is far from new, I like the sound of this one.
The Why of It
What are
all of these words?
Just a bid
for remembrance?
Knowing that presence
made some sort
of difference? Hope
that distilled essence
will have meaning
long after it’s gone?
As if I’ll care
when I’m no longer
here, nor there.
Silly woman,
sitting in morning’s chair
doodling on paper,
mumbled prayers,
supposedly poems
looking for permanent
homes in a world
unmoved, as caring
as stone.
Not for posterity’s sake.
Making of words
is not for children,
or for their
children’s children.
Words that leave
only fading mark, disappearing
as they appear in stark
contrast to empty space,
begging place, birth
on this earth
that just keeps spinning
in own mind-made darkness.
Words are for me,
swimming in careless sea
of images that call
to be sorted, courted
one at a time,
gluing themselves
in rhymes
that I might remember,
not get lost
on my way to whatever
I have still
to become.
Elizabeth Crawford 1/31/10


