Day 18

I hadn't expected napowrimo would end up being so much fun or so difficult at times! A poem a day isn't much, actually, but it is the actual doing of the poem that makes it hard: finding a moment, everyday, in which to write a poem.

The days after a particularly good poem are hardest. I find myself worried the next poem won't be as good, and that is hard on creativity. Because I made a commitment, I'm just slogging through sometimes, producing mediocrity (and pure shit) somedays and that is OK.

It is really a habit, to develope, this writing life. Back in school, I wrote much more often, because I had assignments due (and then, too, I'd write an excess because not all poems fit into the assignments I'd been given). I love returning to this habitual plethura. Even tho more often than not, my creative tool of choice these days is photography, I am at heart, amd always, a wordsmith. I write because words are mine. I am not a visual person by nature, I am a word person. (And as such, I have been training myself to see more visually, the taking on of photography is a lesson to my senses.)

Writing is more natural to me and yet, it is still something I work on and editing is important to my personal style. With this set of poems, I'm editing almost as I'm writing, knowing I will go back to edit (or throw out!) later. That's been a different thing for me, and good for my developement, I hope.

Onwards to today's poem:

Finding My Life

She's not in hiding anymore, the woman I've become.
She's asserting her will in my veins, locking my hair into dreads
and finding resources of patience the girl I was never dreamed of.
She's crafty, witty, amazing. She loves light and the amber sun
in the beginning and end of the day, when photos turn luminescent.
She finds solace in silence, listening to the birds through open doors,
reading a magazine and sipping Assam.
She's still a girl, too, laughing and silly. She finds the best movies
have been marketed to fifteen year old boys and she is not ashamed
to say she loves a bad fart joke. She writes and she reads,
she doesn't really cook much, but she could. She is bound
to the daily laundry, like a ship on the sea. She floats
through the days, grateful, this woman I've become, knowing
deep, deep, deep that she's always been free.