buzzsaw
the bee
cuts through
the knots
the grass
the fibers of sun.
she jams
the dust
the life
like gold
into back pockets.
she jigs
to hive
to home
just like
a tidy wee blade.
Now there are poetry lovers and then there are … well, then there is everyone else. People usually aren’t lukewarm about the subject. Anyone who says, “Yeah, I kinda like poems...” is probably buying you a drink, asking to add you to her online ‘friend’ collection or is about to hit you up for a loan just until Friday.
People who love poems can’t really explain their enthusiasm for poems with any greater clarity than poets can explain their own reasons for writing them. It’s a desire to write something as yet unwritten that speaks of something yet unspoken.
I am sure many folks over the centuries have come up with more satisfying definitions and words of wisdom. They certainly had to do something while waiting for the poem to get itself out of the pen, off of the typewriter keys or into the Word document. Poems can be such stubborn beasties.
I saw that bee in my mind. I heard her buzzing. I watched as she went from flower to flower. Buzz … buzz… buzz…
And then -- done for the day -- a sudden zip! She’s outta there and making a beeline for home. She goes from the bob… to the slice… just like that. And this is sometimes how poems act -- or how poets act -- depending on where you might wish to place the blame for all of those words bouncing about the head and keeping you up at night.
For instance, I wrote the first two sections of the poem above in 2002. I knew that the last line of the poem had to be something about a ‘tidy little blade’ in order to tie together what a bee does with what a saw does.
Poets try stuff like that…
I usually 'get’ the last lines of a poem or of an essay before I even know what the rest of the poem or essay is going to be about. That’s how it works with me. Why it happens that way or where it -- the idea, the theme, the hook -- comes from… no clue.
Then… I was stuck. The poem needed another stanza and I didn’t have one. Couldn’t see one, couldn’t hear one, couldn’t do whatever it is that we poets do one.
But that’s life then, isn’t it? Sometimes no matter how hard you try, whatever it is that you attempt to do, must do, are paid to do, or are suppose to do… doesn’t get done because you just can’t find the right way to do it.
You read books. You ask people things. You try this and that. Nothing. You look at it from this angle. Turn it around. Flip it this way and flap it that way. More nothingness. Welcome to the club. Hello, my name is Wren. Take a seat.
And then, one day, you take the thing out for the sixty-fifth time and…there it is. It comes right up to you wagging its tail.
I finished the poem today. Finished it enough anyway. Poets are always fiddling with their poems and a few lines might wander in or out or over to some other work in progress. It is a good thing for a poet to remember that words -- and ideas -- very often just come jigging on home… Good little beasties.
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