Sometimes, many times, I don't know what I'm feeling until I write it out.
Sometimes I stand back from myself, while in myself, wondering who is this person, writing these words, and why?
Sometimes my head is so full and fuzzed, I can't find my own words. And so I gather others. I go to books — art books, science books, manuals and guides — and jot down words and phrases.
Some feel poetic: dotted with mist.
Others are fact-full: Later measurements show that these surface currents flow with an average velocity of three knots.
Sometimes I pluck single words: moss tidal index
I cut these lines into strips, spread them out, and make sense again. I go outside myself to get back in, where the real poem is forming.
Yes, it is both forced and fluid. It is an exercise and it is art, the kind that stirs hand and heart — the best kind of workout.
The myth of currents
Before these rolling hills and furrowed fields
there was moss and bark, soggy leaves and mist
dotted with riddle.
How is it I dissolved in place?
Struggling to understand the dark wet days
I etched patterns across the terrain of veins.
Tidal rhythms vary but nothing drowns like despair.
I explored the pull of sun and moon, the myth of currents
how the flow swirls, restores, carries away, the hours circling.
Now, there is no drenching rain or rusting salt, no
saturated gloom, no cursing gray sky.
In this index of renewal, every body has its own
movement. What I’m saying is when the moon
was full and the night wide, I left the ocean
to save myself.
— Drew Myron