My best poetry comes from the gut, in an inspiring moment of unspeakable inspiration, it just flows, and the pen in hand, captures it….
When I have to think about the poem-in-progress, idea, hunch, whatever….my ego takes over and creates many creative flow charts, all which lead to no-where…
Poetry, should come from the gut….shouldn’t everything?
Had this real surreal experience on the way to work the other morning. It was early, around 0430, and I was stopped by a train leaving a steel mill. It had many empty cars. The morning was slightly hazy, warm. The trains went by, thumping the pavement, with a rhythm that danced with the warning lights. The train was so dark, and black, but the lights around would break through each car. Very beautiful and peaceful. First time I didn’t mind getting caught by a train….
Trying to work this into poem…
