Insistent
The writing prompt was to pose a question, and then answer it in a poem. My question, as always, was "Why do I keep trying to write poetry when it makes me crazy?"
Because it burns the tips of my fingers,
it itches underneath, like a cough too long held in-
something in my throat that cannot be pushed down
but must be spit out.
Because it follows me through my day,
a fretful toddler clinging to my skirts,
unable to tell me exactly what it needs,
merely whining of unfulfillment.
Because even in my sleep it finds me,
a cat crouched on my chest, rumbling in my dreams,
stealing my breath
so that I rise from my bed, gasping from weight of it
to pace the floor, trying to lose it in patterns traced on midnight carpet.
Because it rains down on me when I find myself in moonlight,
filling my eyes, coating my hair,
sticky, clinging, insistent.
And because, in that swift, sweet dimension
between the condensation of the vapor of thought
and the fermentation of word-
It is perfect
containing exactly what is needed and nothing more.
By the time my hands trace thought to page, my words are just a web
spun around the perfect parts, which are missing.
But it whispers to me that if I keep trying
the right words are sure to tumble out at last.
Then I need only erase the wrong ones
to make the flame as true as the spark.
So I go on, adding and subtracting my rational and irrational numbers,
trying to find the correct emotional algebra,
the proper values of x and y to balance the equation,
to equal the moment of perfect zero,
the synapse and spark of creation.
Tracy Meisky is a poet, writer, singer, songwriter and all-around boat rocker from way back. Feel free to look around, but if you break it, you bought it.