While translating her ordinary thoughts to lines
on paper she had a revelation – who’d want
discourse, or intercourse for that matter, with a
girl who was so patently obvious? It came hot-
breathed, urgent and unveiling, she was not
someone she would want in a relationship.
She had read to death and back again every
passionate and moving poem ever written by
men, and some by awesome women whom
she held in great regard, and yet in the final
rendering they too were too damn obvious,
condescending; no room for improvement
being like them.
Then a line sprang from her confusion, a hairy
cliché that jumped sideways from staid and
usually urbane classical fields, landed in an
undignified sprawl, square where a genteel
opinion might engender the right sentiment,
she thought. And it did, breaking the chain,
setting her free.
Now she writes easily, cares less of restraint
or whether her meaning is bent by rogue
ideas married to obscure opinion, senses
an enjoyment outreaching the bare words,
revels in less rhyme and more meaning, dares
tilt at icons shared as sacrament. It is lonely
out there, but the cold is pure damn gold.
© I.D. Carswell 2007