in the silence of the afterbirth
Writing like that peels the hide from me, feeling like I'm being sliced open (we all have our mutilations, no?). I read it and I am blown away by the power, the fire, and for a few minutes after writing, there is a painful peace...an ache of surrendered humanity. The first time I recall ever encountering that was, ironically, when I wrote "My Electric Lady"...I almost went catatonic from the emotional backlash.
I listen to music to re-center myself...the Spinners, Otis Redding, CSNY, Terence Trent D'arby, Joe Cocker...nothing too intense or too evocative. Beautiful, powerful, proud words.
The creation of my poetry is a primal, bloody act, leaving me winded, fragile. The music is like I am laying a bandage of the words and thoughts and emotions of others over my self-inflicted wound. It heals, and I am actually stronger for the scar tissue of the birth of the work...now multiply that by 50,000-100,000 (no one is really sure how many works I have written, just that most are discarded and that about 14,000 have survived my rages...)
That's who I am. I do three things well. One of them is poetry. The other two feed that beast.
That is the silence, the violence, of the afterbirth. I am a patchwork dragon.
Tortured always by memory, comforted only by legacy...
2 comments:
Breathtaking.
The quiet
in the
still
of the night
blooming jasmine
Hushed
a powerful
peace
of poetry
"...for a few minutes after writing, there is a painful peace...an ache of surrendered humanity..."
This is an amazing phrase, emotion. The words you used to describe the release of something you've created are so similar to the emotion of a mother giving birth to a child.
Reading this brought me back to the exact moment my son was born. After creating, nurturing, carrying and dreaming about a new being, experiencing hours of difficult but ultimately rewarding labour, a child is born into the world.
The silence you speak of after "birthing" your creation, is heartstopping. Waiting even those few seconds to hear your baby's first cry outside of your body...
I may be projecting my own experience into this, but isn't that the way of any art? The artist lovingly creates something, releases it, and holds his or her breath, waiting for it to be received ino the world...
With complete sincerity, in awe of your artistry.
"surrendered humanity." You pinpointed this.
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