The Smithing

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The Smithing

“It’s none of their business that you have to learn 

to write--let them think you were born that way.”

--Ernest Hemingway.

Every poem is/can be

                          a lively sprite/creature that

                          independently guides your pen,

                          fingers & thoughts--    r  u  s  h  i  n  g

out onto screen, paper, & page

like a desert flash flood

from a dark thunderstorm;                     orgasmic & dangerous--

                          born midst gasps & cries & moans,

                          stinking of placental overkill, 

                                                               d  r  i  p  p  i  n  g

of opulence, abundance,

& mysterious passion.

                                                 You stare down, stunned at the creative

                                        word pile, at the myriad of possibilities

                                  and with a reluctant but steady hand,

                          you reach for the fat-leaded blue pencil,

                    the pulsating quiver of arrows that will

             redirect words & clauses, & the thick red

        & black markers that obliterate & redact

certain errant words & phrases,

        forced to facilitate & witness as the

              letters swallow themselves in seconds,

                      as molten & barely metallic ingots

                              are cooled & drenched in icy creek

                                      insights, & the cerebral steam that

                                                rises always tickles your nose hairs

                                                as you lovingly pound a shape into the

                                       piece before the beautiful flames

                               fade from it, before it hardens into

                       its husk, makes

                       its initial impression & embraces

                       its verbal destiny.

Then, you sigh, blushing like a maiden

as you walk away, busying yourself

with the brewing of some green tea

that will be sipped slowly as you stare

at the new pink blossoms on your tulip

tree that has impulsively rushed ahead

of the calendar & sucked face with spring,

until the poem begins to do the black snake

moan--throbbing, whimpering & calling

you back to it.

You return gladly & stare down at it, cradled & swaddled, something

grand that you have whelped, parented, & brought to the light, seeing

it now with new eyes & a fresh perspective, & perhaps, possibly, the

next set of edits will be gentler, calmer, approaching subtle, 

                                before the Cotillion commences, 

                                before your debutante is introduced, announced,

anointed  & coronated--

                                before your poem is offered up, & presented for the

perusal & scrutiny of others. Smiling bravely, you take the child’s tiny hand

& walk with it to the front door, 

                                before letting go, allowing it to scamper outside alone. 

Poetry requires

both pain of delivery &

joy of birthing.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub "Poetics"