writing.

sometimes, i read poetry and cannot help but be moved by the delicate way that these imaginers juxtapose words.

for instance, my favorite poet is pablo neruda. his poetry is beautiful in spanish (though I am by no means fluent, I have only taken a couple classes of spanish and a crash course in a spanish speaking country), the words just flow and curl around your tongue like the sweetest of flavors. But I read most of his work in english, and the translation is like a wonderful melody.

"i remembered you with my soul clenched/in that sadness of mine that you know"

How I know this feeling! With my soul clenched! I wish I had thought of that phrase to describe this gut wrenching missing, emptiness.

In truth, I love writing. But I write like I have no time and I need to get these words down now, now now. Because I don't take time pouring over which adjective would be best, and most times, I don't bother trying to rhyme because it interrupts my thoughts.

When I try too hard, and look too closely, I end up with a manufactured and stilted piece of poetry that has no soul, that sounds like a printed receipt from a machine, listing things without any love. It is rhyming, and all the lines are the same number of syllables, and well, I don't sense any feeling of what prompted me to write in the first place. How do writers go through drafts and drafts, when all I know is blurting what is in my mind, like an unsophisticated blob?