Writing Itself

Writing itself:

not always translated - some things resist a poet's words. It's the experience that matters, and no retelling will even quite capture a moment gone. Yet writing itself provides a few transcendent moments of its own. Released from pursuit of what to tell, allowing myself as space to be found by words that wish themselves written - it all comes to be a perfect flow of listening, received by words, and the grace of fingers touched on keyboards. It's the experience itself, writing, and not a wish for anything beyond this moment. 

of course often there is a chase for words, a keen desire to write of something that is clearly wordless in its true encounter. Zen poets have long ago mastered the art of saying little with such impact, offering not so much a description but an encounter with the present moment, even as it was written long ago. A master's art is timeless. 

my goal is always simple, indeed, it's a wish for simplicity itself. I care about arrangement, that the gift of words, so purely given, should find themselves in certain order. I am less an author than one who arranges words on their arrival, listening to the sound they offer against of between. Every pause, each word, matters to my care, there is a trust to this arranging. 

my goal is to honor what arrives. 

and mostly it's always a surprise, that writing is its own agenda and belong to its expression - at best, in moments of that perfect flow, there is no true message, no experience to be told. It's the writing itself, from the first words dropped in silence, my smile, listening to their sound, and patience, however eager, to see what more (if anything) unfolds. 

it's the experience itself that matters. 

~

Peace, Eric