As usual with many of these scratchings, it arises in me early morning. There seems not the time to have pondered anything at too much length. This, to me, the apparent lack of forethought, carries with it a certain fresh morning air, of authenticity. But, that is all; certainty – no, I can be certain of little.
Try this – all writing is a projection. The enticing question is this however; as the pen scratches or glides, across the paper, how direct are the guiding lines from and back to, the heart?
Or, to ask this in a complimentary way; what are the nature of the truths, being written down?
You can quickly deduce I am probably better at questions than answers – possibly not a bad thing. Okay, nevertheless here is my current short thoughts on these writing processes, as it arrived with me this morning about 0615.
In a sense when anyone is writing anything personal it is always arising, to some greater or lesser extent as an extension from the heart. Only the writer will know how much of their heart is in it. Although, for any reader, how strongly they sense a resonance in themselves, their hearts’ connectivity to the piece should indicate those qualities of content authenticity.
What are the nature of the truths? Well, everything that is written has certain truth, inherent. That might seem, on the face of it, a bold statement. I see it this way: writing is a truing mechanism. As you write what is actually present at that moment, pen on paper, becomes created as the projection of your current truth. It is, at least, important that you gain a truth by knowing, it acts, the writing, for self-salvation. Consider, the actual act, of writing . . . this truth and yet, here again, another! Do you see, heart, thought, intent, self-salvation, it’s all in there, is it not? Of course, there will, in time, be further questions. So allow them, but don’t ever doubt your fundamental integrity of heart.
Maybe all of the above was simply the mechanism for me to offer a reprise of this poem, about writing poetry. I penned this several years ago. It still stands true, from the heart of me. How about you?
A line is; intentional being, laid before, the promise of something expressed.
A verse is; soul, flowing across space, created between poised pen and waiting paper.
A poem is; spirit, unexpectedly manifest, in voice, gaze of muse and attentive recipient.