Well friends, seems the poet has had a stronger grip on me than the storyteller. It's been too long since I've been able to put pen to paper (fingers to keyboard in my case) and a story or part there of has been the result. The characters are silent where they would normally tell me their story - no, not the voices in my head. Those are still quite loud. That being said, the poems are coming out more and more frequently. Which is interesting to say the least. So, last week I was surprised by where creativity can come from and the process it sometimes takes. It started when some words spilled out of me during dinner. Words that I quickly captured on to my phone. Then, a day later, I saw a picture frame that sparked a few more words in me. Little did I know that these would turn into a poem that my dear editor has labeled: "My Favourite of All." She liked it so much she insisted I do a reading of it to her once I've figured out it's source and what it really means. And so, for your reading pleasure: Impression.
Enough blah, blah, blah from me. Here is the poem.
Impression
A blank canvas of grey skies
Brushed in strokes that imply
Tones pregnant with lost smiles
On a palette smudged with denial
Framed by a view of ever-present lies
Seen shimmering through raining eyes
Textures fingered, jagged and mine.
A life. Painted. Missing.
What do you think, my dear friends? When he words blank canvas came to me that evening, I didn't know that there was so much imagery behind them. After a struggle with naming the poem, a good friend (yes, you Roxanne) that knows my heart pulled the name from my mind. So you see, the creative process does not occur in a vacuum. Impression came from a conversation about art and was sealed by a perceptive friend. Where does yours come from?
Nic. Out.
