Each year I wait for April, and the closer it gets the more often I find myself abstaining from writing poetry. This is a difficult task. If you are not a poet or a writer it might sound a little ridiculous. A surgeon doesn't keep away from his doctor duties in preparation for surgery. A teacher doesn't stop writing lesson plans right before she is reviewed by her principal. Most people practice their skills before the big event, to make sure they've got everything down.
Poetry isn't like that--at least, not for me.
Poetry is a piece of me, a part of my body and soul that seemed to be attached to me long before I recognized it or realized it was important. The feelings come effortlessly; it is only the perfecting and revising of words that come with practice and patience. And so I hold in my feelings for a while, in order to let them burst forth later for thirty days straight. The hard part isn't writing when I'm supposedly "out of practice." The hard part is finding the perfect words for the imperfection of raw emotion.
In the spirit of honesty, I must tell you that I am not writing new poems for every day of April. However, they will be new poems to you. I have a secret poetry blog, which is hidden from the public for other secret reasons, but I've selected a handful of poems from this "other place" that I wrote over the last year. They will be edited and revised in order to be shared with you, in addition to some new ones (of course!)
So, without any further dawdling, here is a poem. (This one is new.)
Spectrum - April 1, 2015
Blank slates are black
made rough by white thoughts--
an absent mind
or absent-minded scribbles.
All the colors at once
overwhelmed and beheld,
or all at once
to see such colors.
The right frame of mind
or right-angled frame
makes hues into words
and names into shades.
But seeing holds the belief
in the distinct
without the instinct
to take away choice
and just paint the world gray.
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