More inspiration

I seem to have a broken record here--or at least a scratch in the record that causes my needle to skip and repeat, skip and repeat. (A metaphor lost on anyone who has never been acquainted with the vagaries of vinyl recordings...sad.) In any event, I keep discovering new things about inspiration and motivation in writing, chief of which is that, for me, there's no inspiration like a deadline. I suspect I am not alone in that regard.

Witness the fact that I was asked four days ago for a poem for a local publication. I wrote something, but (wisely) set it aside and went back later to read it again before I sent it on its way.  Absolute drivel when I looked at it again. So I started over, and this time, came up with something that I at least liked enough to send out to some friends for comment. However, the key thing here was the mechanics of inspiration. It's very hard to analyze, but I'm coming to the conclusion that ideas happen for me as a result of striking images that pop up, unbidden, throughout my day, IF I ONLY WOULD PAY ATTENTION. The whole idea of writing notes on things I see, or taking pictures of them seems to be a good way of embedding thoughts in my teflon-coated brain. Pictures and words remind me of what I was thinking. And sometimes, I can even expand and improve upon those initial ideas by working at them later. This morning, we were driving into the city, and during a stop at the drycleaners, I noticed how much the scene outside my window, blurred by the rain, called to mind paintings I'd seen. I snapped a few pictures through the window and uploaded them when I got home. I may never do anything with them, but with any luck, if I'm ever stuck for an idea, I can look back at them and see what I saw this morning again, and perhaps make something out of it. Who knows?

In the meantime, here's one of the pictures--and the poem for the newsletter.

Spring Song

 

Spring scribbles color on the landscape

like a four-year-old with a thousand crayons:

redbud pink on rain-dark bark,

forsythia stars, shining yellow on fountain branches,

the shiny green of ivy, emerging on its vines,

Re-papering a rose-brick wall,

And tulips marching in their military reds and golds.

 

There are the soft pastels of springtime sounds and smells:

the spice of daffodils, the sharp, dark tang of mulch

spread round chilly pansy toes and primrose feet,

and, singing through the hopeful, new-bud green

of flowers, shrubs and trees,

the April forecast of sun and showers

with a chance of lilacs.