With my overwhelming work schedule this semester, creative things have been finding alternate routes out of my head. I’m sure this is a sanity-saving safety device built into my brain’s biology. One of the mechanisms is the spontaneous composition of poems just as I’m preparing for bed.
I enjoy writing poetry. The mixture of rhythms, images, and word play in a compact form is fascinating. During more restful periods, I like to pick random words and try to build a poem around them. With a rough poem in hand, I start the linguistic lapidary needed to find the best facets and features, making it shine with, what I hope, is brilliance.
With the end of a long day, and the prospect of another tomorrow, the poetry builds up pressure in the mantle of my mind. From time to time, it finds some cravase, and forces its way to the surface. Grabbing the notebook beside my bed, I scribble the words as they erupt and guide them to safety. If I don’t, there will be no sleep that night.
The pressure safely relieved, rest comes, such as it is. It is a reminder of what lurks beneath. It also makes me wonder what would happen if these smaller releases failed. What is a poetry eruption?