Till I am full

I’ve had a couple days marathon and now I feel a lull, wonder what I’m supposed to do with myself until the next marathon. I keep thinking I’ll find a system and get it down, but it never works that way. The only thing I can trust is that it will come again and to keep my eyes, nose, throat, heart, toes open to whatever wants a place in me for a while.

I’m one of those sucker fish cleaning, eating algae off the side of a fish tank or rocks in the ocean or even other fish. I sip in and spit out what I can’t use. Or perhaps my spitting out is what the poems become. ha. poems as regurgitation. That’s not a very pretty way to think about it in the end. Calling it some kind of magic seems much more suitable.

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2 Responses to Till I am full

  1. My belief is that writers, and I would say poets in particular, are translators – in an absurdly broad sense I suppose that could be a regurgitator. To take feelings, experiences, interpretations and present them in ways that either make them more accessible or deepen their mystery…a fish with mad skills.

    I doubt that the muses adhere to a system…each visit will be unique.

    • rachvb says:

      I like your take on translation better than my regurgitation. Sounds much prettier!
      A fish with mad skills! ha! If only I could breathe underwater – although that might be too much and too many worlds to have to understand. I’ll stick to not understanding dry land.

      Muses ARE unpredictable. I like them better that way. If they gave away all their secrets we’d have nothing to search for.

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