I'm sitting in my office at the university, enjoying a little quiet time. I have another two-and-a-half hours to kill before I pick up my daughter at the dance studio. I'm attempting to be productive. After I'm done typing this post, I'm going to work on my Christmas poem a little more. So far, my vague idea has remained vague, like the mirage of a car on a highway in the summer. I can't quite make out its shape, make, or color.
I have some Christmas music cranked on my laptop for inspiration. Currently, I'm listening to "Evangelium: Liber Generationis," which is a medieval Hungarian Christmas song. It's absolutely gorgeous. Haunting, like Gregorian chant. It's the kind of music that drives my family crazy when I listen to it at home.
I have learned not to wait for inspiration when it comes to my Christmas poem. Poetry is about one percent inspiration, and the rest is just friggin' hard work. I'm in the friggin'-hard-work stage now. I don't mind, though. Eventually, I'll have a breakthrough. The words will crack open, and a poem will peck its way to life. That's the best part of writing poetry. It makes all the frustration worth it.
Well, I've finished my cheddar and peanut butter sandwich.
Time for Saint Marty to get his poet on. Either that or stare at a blank page for the next two hours.
|Rough draft by poet Natasha Trethewey|
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