The Way That A Poem...

Sometimes, but seldom is a poem inspired by one solitary spark... 

That is why I might say something like

"this poem was inspired in part by..."

Such as this one!

It started partly from yester-dusk's walk 

beneath frayed heaven's...

 ...and sunset snagged on pussy-willows...

and perhaps partly from this...

Partly from heavens dusk-frayed or dawn-beaming

Partly from pictures that waft, echo-soft

Partly from petals that ride a tide, streaming

Into the future from places long-lost

Partly from doing and partly from dreaming

Carefree indulgence and weighing the cost

Partly the music but partly the quiet

Wishes and wonder’s entangled heart-strings

Purple and tangerine sky-garden riot

Partly the falling and partly the wings

Partly the perfume of lilac and violet

Pressed between pages of soul-treasured things

Partly the parting and partly the greeting

Partly the mys’try that rides on the morn

Partly the baby and childhood so fleeting

Partly the beauty of weathered and worn

Partly the hillside that offers free seating

To witness ways that a poem is born

Partly the working, the playing and praying

While we are waiting for all that is not

Partly the leaving and partly the staying

Partly the weaving with ribbons of thought

Partly the grieving and part hip-hooraying

This is the way that a poem is wrought

Partly the teaching that turns into learning

Love’s hug-tug luggage to trouble and please

Partly the reaching and partly the yearning

Where moment-bubbles turn to memories

Partly the constant rush of no-returning

Pouring through touch with such vexatious ease

Partly fulfillment and part expectation

Grand Possibility’s mind-boggling ‘might’

Partly the picture that waits for persuasion

From places only spelled ink brings to light

Partly the pleasure of the invitation

This is the way that a poem takes flight

Partly the heartache and partly the laughter

Partly the bitter to better the sweet

Partly before, but I’d say more, the after

When brunt of being and fantasy meet

Partly the meadow hung from heaven’s rafter

Partly the hard-knock far from easy-street

 

Partly the haste with which twilight comes stealing

Partly the startling taste of moment-sums

Partly the no-time-to-lose summer-feeling  

Partly the lingering over last crumbs

Partly the wounding and partly the healing

This is the way that a poem becomes

© Janet Martin