I just want to add my ideas about the writing metaphor discussing going here. I basically get the same picture that everyone else here has said, so I won't write that up again. This is the part I'm interested in.
But then I saw what I had done.
The flock was there, beckoning but unreachable.
The ice had been exposed to my engines too long.
I would not capture more that morning
And tomorrow, they would be gone.
[end of presentation]
Certainly, not original
I like what it says about poetry. To me, it's about forcing poems to paper. Writing things that aren't ready to be written. I've done that so many times, sat down to write and nothing comes naturally, so I try to make it come against its will. Invariably (oohh, big word, maybe you guys should read this post in a bad British intellectual accent *grins* no offense to anyone here that's British of course), the poem is always awful. As Brad says, the flock (the words, ideas, poems, etc.) are there, beckoning (why I write) but unreachable (so I'm gonna force a poem). I won't capture more (no more good ideas are gonna be captured onto paper) and tomorrow they'll be gone (my ideas never stay that long). And then, not original (it was forced, everyone should realize that) but we've all experienced that, so maybe because of that, we can understand and enjoy the poem.
Once again, nothing to say on a technical matter. I think I'm just feeling philosophical and wordy tonight. Maybe I'll drop by the philosophy forum.
I like too many things and get all confused and hung-up running from one falling star to another till i drop. This is the night, what it does to you. I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion.