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For me, poetry is the oddest form of writing. Sometimes the words come all by themselves, triggered by an event, an image, a thought, even a book I’ve read or movie I’ve seen. Something triggers the mind, and words and images suddenly, uncontrollably, flow.
Other times, it’s deliberate. I sit down to write a poem about something or someone. Sometimes that works out well, sometimes, when I’m finished, I throw out the last few hours work and go have a cup of tea.
My favorites are those that write themselves, leaving me to do some minor clean-up, spelling adjustments, a word here or there, nothing more. The image has written itself out and the demon has put down the pen, returning control to me. However, suddenly grabbing a pen and scribbling for minutes or hours is somewhat disconcerting to those around you, especially if they thought they were having a conversation with you at the time.
It is amid the writing of words, the weaving of lines on paper, decisions made or not, the choosing of one pathway to follow, and another to walk away from, that a life passes.
So, I give you the middle years of the demon scribbles: songs of words
and images, thoughts, philosophies and visions.
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