Well, this is the last day of April. Finally, the cruelest month has passed. We can look forward to May, a gentler environment and perhaps gentler words with which to put down our thoughts. Ah Thomas, did you know that they would make April poetry month? Perhaps the thought of breeding life out of death is the ultimate challenge to all those who write.
It is for me.
Looking back on the month, I didn't succeed in writing a poem a day, through I did try. Life intrudes. Work intrudes. Is each and every thought worth the effort of recording it? I don't think so. In an article in 'The New Quarterly', a poet opines that she writes poems from notes, over time. I write from the moment. I've stopped keeping notes. Quite often, I begin with a random thought which seems to require expansion. I begin to expand, I lose my way, the writing wanders off and arrives somewhere, though not on any recognized rail line destination.
Writing as catharsis — journal entry. I like to think I take things beyond that plain, though, perhaps I don't. This is the way I understand writing — brush words against your soul, see them spin away, realize that there is no GPS for creativity, just one's own sense of where you are and where you would rather be.