Dealing with Perfectionism

Every writer has to deal sooner or later with when to end the poem and/ or to stop working on it. There are many poems that I created that had wonderful lines in them or images that I could "see" with every fiber of my being. That is not always enough, the entire poem has to work..and it has to work for more than just you! I have poems I have worked on for years...yes, I said years... and I still don't like the way they came together....or I felt it needed just one more little tweak, but they still don't feel complete to me. We are often our own harshest critics, and it is so fun to punish ourselves repeatedly. I believe 90% of writer's block is perfectionism in it's worst form.
Everybody writes for their own reasons, but I write because my sanity depends on it. It doesn't do me any good to be harsh on myself, or to stop writing because it doesn't look exactly right to me. Write because you love words, write to tell stories, write to find your voice. Your writing is uniquely YOU, like your fingerprints...so tread softly and be gentle, just keep trying!



Two poems that I never "finished" or liked..but couldn't let of...

On The Art Of Blooming

The swollen buds hang un - birthed,
seemingly suspended by expectancy alone.
I laugh as the moon reaches a silver beam
to tickle with abated breath the plant
the plant that writhes to retain it's eminent blooms.

One elderly curiously gent pauses to consider the mirage of gold
his eyes at first perceived;
There -
slivers of canary color forewarn
of an explosive revelation.
The tension becomes increasingly acute.
Brilliance that demands disclosure
must first wrestle with restraining boughs
that know how beauty offends an ugly world.

we scream together for tomorrow's release.....

A mornings sigh will find our lives shattered,
splintered with the shrapnel
of a vibrant yellow forsythia.

1980


On The Value of Words

With trembling lip and acid dread
I gave birth to those atomic words.
"Poor victims that they were!"
they flew like a hare before the hounds
to finish a mercenary job,"Well done"

Though they had ruptured from my bowels like a sausage overstuffed
and ripped my soul with their urgency,
It might have made all the difference as a grain of sand
falling unnoticed from the workman's bench.

"Fool that I was!" to lower myself to words
that I might have thought would change the color of the sky!
Why speak such idiotic syllables?
if they become but a child's whim to wipe away the brownness of her eyes?

I did not think the blades of grass
would shout at me a brighter green.
nor did I dare to dream the Hyacinth would emulate a richer scent...
so why give wings to those cursed thoughts
that until not have only tortured the recesses of my heart?

My mind twists in pain
I now confess
were I to guess and admit with quaking fear,
my true motive for speaking such,
was hope...
you might have grasped those birds of articulation,
held their bloody treasure in your unstained hands
take that meaty mess
raise it to your lips

and kiss...


OK yes, I was in love, and yes I got my heart broken! Have yourself a good laugh at my expense! There is something awful about these poems! I still can't let them go! These are just some of my imperfect poems...so go ahead ..write ..and enjoy yourself!