I woke this morning in the dark with a mouth full of poetry. I felt that I could write it gently and thereby gentle my world in the way only poems can do, as if they are fine-boned branches with one or two blossoms, placed in an empty room.
But when I put the words on paper, they were only words; they did not fit together. They were what becomes of dreams in daylight: all the glamour faded, the motives confused. I don't really mind. I spent yesterday afternoon reading old poems beneath a tree, beside the sea. That probably explains it.
A poem is such a little thing, but it takes time to write. Not so much in the putting words down, but the readying of the space inside. I always found that poems were wild things drifting through the day, and some came to rest a while in my heart and, if I was lucky, stay. At least, for long enough that I might compose them, until they drifted away again.
I have been writing too much these days to make a wordless space for poetry. Still, I feel them in the ambience: new poems, and old poems that have been waiting so long all their words are now lost - ghost poems, and poems in pieces I might be able to compose if I had the time to compose nothing for a while, and let the word-bits coalesce. If I had the energy to be more inside myself.
I do miss little poems, and just a few words on white space. And I am aware that, when poetry starts coming for you, there's nothing much you can do. Just get a pen and hold on. It's magical, far more magical than writing a novel.