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
Soul's Music 
Like hearing about the ‘why’ of your writing…always poses the question of why any of us continue to write…probably like you…’for me.”
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Thank you for visiting and for commenting. Writing is a lot of things for me, thereapy, clarity, understanding, seeking and searching, but also pleasure and joy as well. They why of doing it doesn’t always seem to make sense until one admits that it is most all for self, and the story of me.
Elizabeth
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Like all except the first stanza: the questions posed seem to set a different tone than the reflection in the rest of the piece.The title really seems to ask the necessary question. I like to see the way you work: thank you.
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Hi Susan,
and you are welcome. Following and making words is a way of life for me. It is a moment by moment, word by word unfolding of whatever path I am on. And finding the answer is often a winding road. One, I thoroughly enjoy unraveling. I simply can’t think of another reason for being here, lol.
Elizabeth
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We write because it is what we do. There is Magick, raw POWER in that which we write, be it for good or bad. We “writers” are the last of a dying breed in the thrall of technology. Attempting to overcome a dull gray that has swept over human emotion, the “disconnect” of technology providing a cozy gap between “Real Life Feelings” “Emo Rhetoric”.
It is well written, and any critique that might be acceptable as such Susan already gave. The flow is easy to follow, and for “we wordsmiths” hit home on an all too real level of the dimming future of our “trade”.
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We poets (writers) are the prophets of another age, a far more ancient one. And yes, I agree that there is magic and power in this element. I also think that each writer writes for one individual, yet becomes the voice of others, sometimes multitudes. When I first started making poems, I met a man who said he believed that poetry was dying and would come to an end before he himself ended. I didn’t agree and still don’t. Poetry is also music and as long as there is a beat to the life we create, there will also be a need to raise a voice whether that is in harmony or protest.
Thank you for your comments, and for raising your voice,
Elizabeth
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I loved this one..
I don’t think poetry will ever die. it will be there forever,poetry will be written, by many poets, even at their dying last moments. it’s the what, who, why, where, they are and have been planted..
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I so agree with you Connetta. There will always be a need for a voice to be raised. Glad there are so many of them,
Elizabeth
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