A poem arrives like a hand in the dark.
Who knows where inspiration comes from, and where it goes. I submit that even artists don’t — at least, not yours truly. After something of a dry patch, where I began to refer to myself as an “ex-writer,” I find that I’m writing, again, and for this I am grateful (but no less bewildered).
Ultimately, I think the mysterious creative process has something to do with humility, desperation even, and the intensity of the conversation we are having with ourselves. Then, there is the spiritual dimension to consider.
As with life, perhaps, the fewer expectations we have of our art, the more fully we are able to surrender — admitting to ourselves that creativity is, ultimately, beyond our control — the more likely we are to be visited and helped by our muse.
In the wise words of the 13th-century Egyptian Sufi mystic Ibn Ata Allah:
If you want gifts to come your way, then perfect the spiritual poverty [al-faqr] you have.
Art, after all, is a product of authenticity. However artists might lie to themselves or others in their personal lives, art-making is involuntarily truth-telling. When we truly dare to lay our soul bare, we find that we are able to reach strangers; only what springs from the heart reaches the heart.
In times of crises, personal or political, I find myself asking with renewed urgency, how can poetry ease our souls? Below, is a short meditation from my new book, Learning to Pray that might help remind us to keep hope alive.
The Light-keepers
Hope is a lighthouse
(or, at least, a lamppost)
someone must keep vigil
to illumine this possibility
In the dark, a poet will climb
narrow, unsteady stairs
to gaze past crashing waves
and sing us new horizons
Others, less far-sighted, might
be deceived by the encroaching night
mistake the black for lasting, but
not those entrusted with trimming wicks
Their tasks are more pressing—
winding clockworks, replenishing oil-
there is no time for despair
when tending to the Light.
