First, find the soul of your poem
How do you find the soul of a poem?
It may rise, serene as a soap bubble as you wash the dishes,
it may slip into the seat next to you as you drive to work,
it may flutter past the window or scream from a screen,
or be scrawled on a toilet wall.
Second, you must open up the soul of the poem
You may do this as delicately as a surgeon wielding a scalpel
or with the sweep of a hunting knife,
with a fine needle, a shard of glass,
or your own teeth and nails.
Third, you must gather the words
Because the words are there,
trembling in the tips of your fingers
echoing from your phone,,
trapped in the book by the side of your bed,
spilling from the lips of the woman beside you,
shimmering in the sunlight, the moonlight
Fourth, you must write the poem
So many ways to write the poem –
with a blunt pencil in a favourite book,
with black ink on the skin of your lover,
on the sand, to be washed away by the tide,
on the walls of the tower, in the blood of the wolf
who died in your arms.
On the sky.
Last, you must finish the poem
Stop writing the poem. Let it be.
It’s not yours. Stop writing the poem,
or you’ll find it’s no longer a poem,
it’s your life.