One night, I got some lines for a poem, about poems, in a dream. They disappeared in the morning, but the ideas behind them stuck. So, I wrote a poem. I don't know if this is one I'll learn by heart, but maybe it will give you a sense of what that is like. (As always, this poem is fresh and mostly unedited, so please forgive any chunkiness.)
The poem is not your friend.
The poem is a pest.
It gets under your skin and
nestles down inside you.
You would like it to go to sleep,
give you a break,
but the poem tosses and turns,
throwing off its blankets to expose
this line or that.
The poem does not care about you.
It is looking for a home,
and when it finds one in you,
it will move in for good, or at least
for a long stay.
If you ignore it, the poem will pout
and keep tapping you on the shoulder.
The poem will tell you,
“Here. I belong to you.”
The poem doesn’t care who wrote it,
only who gives it residence.
The poem will
pick at your scabs,
make you cry,
yell in your face.
Then it will pat your back and say,
As long as the poem includes
one line of mystery, it will continue to
niggle at your thoughts,
tug at your heart,
poke you in the gut.
But although it isn’t your friend,
the poem will be
It will move you,
agree with your deepest thoughts,
tell you if you are on track.
Even if you forget one of its lines,
the poem will reveal the lesson
in that omission.
The poem will be
And you will love it.
One of my SoulCollage® cards
P.S. I will be doing a Persephone Rising SoulCollage® event on April 8th. Email me if interested.