Where Do Poems Come From?

The following poem was constructed during the Method and Mystery Book Launch event on June 22nd, 2019. Every participant contributed a line, which was then assembled into the work below. Comment on this post by leaving your own line of verse – Where Do Poems Come From?

Last night a friend asked me what do I do…when… I have… writer’s block. (I frequently get asked this… *shrug*) Don’t write. Words emerge. Haunt me. Then…I know…it’s time. Words come from up above. Period. I don’t write ‘em!

Poems come from hysterical inspiration and the sweetness of breathing

They come from the backyard of the mind

They come from my dream and deeper in my heart. Poetry comes from when I freeze my soul; From lavender bushes and ash living in my bones

Poetry comes from under the river under the rocks, under the memory that might stop you!

A star bursts out making a pattern in the universe

Empty flower vases, Dreaming of another place

Poems come from the swan’s walk, the wind’s whisper and the light above the fog.

Poems come from the soiled underside of stones caught in the brown throat of a river

Poems come from the shrieking carcasses of the lunar warthogs which can be found in the remote wetlands of the Galapagos

Poems come from the scorched eyebrows of demons, from the falling ash of their breath; From quicksand and blackened rock

Poems come from coal miners who work in the heart

Poems come from the thread of abandoned whisker my cat leaves on my pillow

Poems are the inner gurgling of the reflective mind

Mini-obsessions that need to be quenched through action

from moments that are hard to understand

Love is a long spanking; Rhythm of like sound a noise that abounds, the sound of a tree being lifted of a forest floor.

Poems come from the voices my pen recaptures from the light; Inside the labyrinth of a scarab’s heart

Poems come from space between confusion and deep knowing; The causeway of the soul, from the many selves, silenced for years, now honored guests at the table of meaning

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Comments (2)

Julie Van Brasch Britzman

Poems slide from the narrow desk with the high balcony view in the corridor between the ocular and aural; the gathering place.

Because I am human, separate, and mortal.

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