I’m writing poetry again, and it’s like a half-remembered dream. It disappears when I get too close to it.
Why am I torturing myself so?
Well, Turtleduck Press is putting together a winter-themed anthology, and since I can’t write a short story, it was suggested I write poetry.
Easy, right?
Oh sure, I can wax poetic on love, winter, Christmas. But for it to sing, to move me, not so much. I tried a new form, too, called the rondeau. It’s French, and it involves repetition in a certain pattern. I love poems with repetition and have been successful with both sestinas and pantoums. And I’m normally very edgy about formal poetry, but this speaks to me.
Oh my goodness. I feel like a novice poet — as if the past 15 years of poems haven’t been written. I feel like a stranger in my skin. What the heck happened?
I suspect I’m out of practice. And writing to a theme is really tough. I keep trying to write sad love poems. And the Christmas poem I wrote was also sad. I’m not sure that’s going to work.
But, gonna keep poking at it. Maybe something will come.
Weaver of Words 
Ahhhhh. An unsolicited suggestion:
Find some of the poems you have written that you truly love. The ones that still catch your breath when you read them are the best. When you re-read them, close your eyes and remember where you were sitting, how you felt at the time, and imagine your blood flowing through you as the words came out of your fingers.
Once you are immersed and have felt that for a few minutes, turn back to what you are working on now and start over.
Just a thought.
Thanks, Lacey, for the great suggestion!
Hugs,
E.