The Creative Process

This week, above all weeks, I find myself writing. “You’re a blogger, big deal.” I am aware. But the writing I am talking about isn’t this incoherent-stream-of-consciousness that you are perusing right now, this is the DUN DUN DUN creative process.

Three songs, six poems, half a short story and one blog post later, I struggle to know where the inspiration came from. Life, I suppose, but specifics are hard to lay a finger on. Its these times of vast production that you become overly taken with the concept of becoming the ‘artiste,’ obsessed with becoming the historical figure of tomorrow. Once the creative period passes of course, you realise that you actually DO have to buckle down and learn some stuff, because you can’t lounge around your parents house forever, erratically tinkering on piano keys at one o clock in the morning. But until that moments rears its head again, I feel like sharing.

I’ll probably regret this tomorrow, so this post can spend a nice nap in drafts tonight. If this makes it to you, I present The Telephone.

Does one forget the voice?

The air as it rushes

Past varying lengths of vocal cord,

The timbre resounds.

Perhaps not, and yet

I still find myself dialling the numbers

So as to recollect

The quiet, slightly lengthened laugh,

Whose purpose is to cover a pause,

The slight breath before a statement,

An intonation,

The less commonly audient tone of firm reassurance

Which I find myself slave to,

Comforted every time.

These doubts which frequent me

Are invariably soothed by the rise

And fall in pitch of each sentence,

A nocturne without my signature morose.

I impatiently crave for this technological barrier

To be lifted

And I wonder whether you have noticed these discrepancies of me.

I hope and wait in anticipation.

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8 thoughts on “The Creative Process

  1. One think I’ve learned: I’ve never regretted a post I was doubtful about.
    This poem made me remember the girl who lost her father but couldn’t cry. One day she found the geranium cuttings he had given her were flowering and she rushed to phone him – remembered he was dead – and then she cried.
    I love a poem that stimulates memories.

  2. Made me think of an old boyfriend, who, even years and years later, would calling, absentmindedly dialing my number, accidentally dialing my number and then sounding surprised when I answered. Just the sound of his voice — within a word or two I was right there, seeing his face.

    Thank you for a lovely poem.

    Pearl

  3. Reminds me of all the times I’d go to pick up the phone and call Dad, only to remember he was gone as I reached for the first number.

    And yet, instead of being sad, it made me glad that I still wanted to discuss the world with him. A girl always needs her Dad, even if we hate to admit it sometimes. 😉

    Nicely done. Keep writing.

  4. Like Pearl, reminds me of ringing ex and then wondering why I did it without thinking. Actually, it reminds me of some calls I make now, but would rather not think about. Good on you for posting it.

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