A Poet's Diary
Four hours is about the time
It takes AC to write a poem -
To spawn a concept holding true
Throughout, the format glued
So that the reader, unconfused
Can come away in thought, declaring,
“This I understood and ought to share it!”
Five this morning she awakened
And too tired to rise, she staked her
Bet on subtle yoga to do something wise
For body and for intellect,
Collecting and connecting mindful musings.
Suddenly, computer there on shelf beside her,
She could slide and write her unformed verse.
Still stilted, (could be worse),
But dripping through, the fingers tripping through
A blend of lexicon, thesaurus, thought and spontaneity.
Lo, a poem! Quite awful but with full veracity -
In need of much adjustment, which in turn erase
And suture lines to rhymes, mirror poetic face,
Which once again began to train and form a unit: charming
Meaning geared, the abstruse cleared, ejected and corrected, by which time
Not quite yet primed, Ms Corwin heard the first alarm;
A gentle wake-up sound which said,
“Four hours have passed. Get out of bed!”
She will go over poem once more.
With bedroom slippers still on floor, now on her feet,
She will go down the stairs to eat,
For writing is a hungry feat
Of mystical creation.
Poetess -- Vova Kupyansky