A bit of an experiment. I don't usually write poetry but I'm playing with the not-knowing right now.
He smiled and she found an idea.
In pain and in tears: an idea.
Out of books that she read, in the feeling of wrong,
what the stranger had said, an idea.
Equipped with ideas, she hunted.
Through books and journals, she hunted.
Interviewed many, lost days to reading,
guarantees - there weren't any, regardless, she hunted.
Home from the hunt, time to sit with the mess.
Index cards, post its, a mess.
A pen in her mouth, a coffee in hand,
she sits on the couch with the mess
In a leather bound book, she wrote.
With a pigment ink pen, she wrote.
On buses and trains, in cafes and bars,
through shine, hail and rain, she wrote.
Late through the night, she typed.
Skip this bit, change that bit, she typed.
Draft no. 2: from the paper to screen,
one page at at time, she typed.
She sat there and read it aloud.
When no one was there, aloud.
Page after page, she performed from her desk,
Red pen filled with rage, aloud.
Months later, at last, it is done.
What of the book that is done?
Away on a shelf, safe from critics and crowd,
A book just for herself? And it's done.
Please, for goodness' sake, put your great ideas into the world.