I created life
From the pit of my stomach
it awakens, visceral
Clawing itself out from my eyes
Feeling its way out, it pries and
Drags out all thought as it pours
With each touch, more
Into form, pooling
Onto the paper
Preens in its perfection
And the sense I gave away to it
Within me, heals
And each slumbering cell in me
Thrums with life
If I can taste
a handful of words so,
A few scattered lines
How the moons and planets
would have sated!
Can you imagine the light?
I wonder what God feels like
The thing about creation is, you need to keep one eye at what’s forming, and one eye looking out for what it’s going to be.
Like writing. Most of the time I start aimlessly, but have this tugging in my gut that helps point put which direction I should send the words in. None of it is conscious, none of them a reckons you’d decisions- ‘oh let’s write about butterflies and sunsets’- It doesn’t work that way.
The first line appears to you, then its mate. Could be the start, the middle, or just a stray line that was drifting around at the bottom of you thoughts, and your subconscious latched onto it. And you go from there. Weighing letters, deciding if they’re capable of conveying your feelings- if they deserve to convey your feelings. Not all words deserve feelings, and not all feelings deserve words.
Of course, this is all dissected in hindsight. When you write, it’s just a flurry of images and thought and emotion, and all the decisions I mentioned, dancing around each other till – your poem’s on paper.
Painting’s much of the same. There’s a streak of color, slashing across a canvas, snaking its way slowly, sluggishly, or blazing down the page- you never know. The colors know where they have to go, and they tell you.
I haven’t any experience in making music, but I imagine musicians know their notes the same way too. Some songs are too fluid to be anything but a composition breathed to life from its dormant perfection. Just saying.
We create, from the pits of our stomachs. From the dredges of thought. From the words that won’t let us breathe and the faces that won’t let us sleep. We wrestle our demons and pin down our angels, and survey the indecipherable maze, wondering if someone will follow the clues. We create anger and sorrow and ecstasy and silent observation. We create them all and immortalize then in memory and on paper. In ink and oil and clay, they do not bleed or move but we breathe our life into them. For their purpose, for their intent, for making them who they are to be made for- we create them.