[john4]

As we are here in the "creative process" section, I wondered about is, after all, a philosophical question: whatis the creative process, howdoes it work, how do each of you actually begin to create some piece (a poem, for example). I personally am ruminating all the time, maybe even unconsciously. I am working out words, phrases - that kind of thing. What about "writers' block"? It all just 'comes' to me.: maybe that's what they mean by being visited by the "Muse". Just wondered . . . maybe someone out there could come back with some ideas?

[FinLady]

The strangest things can inspire you. Your feelings, a flower by the road side, etc. Though I found that sometimes the best ideas seem to come around midnight, as you are trying to fall asleep - LOL.

[Burntmarshmallow]

I find that I have to write even if what I write is nothing worthy or good... Just to express any and all feelings to get them out and on paper and off my mind... but others times I am just over come with inspiration and almost become manic in the creative process and the words and images just spill all over and I have to go and go non stop until the work is just right . I am like that when I try to paint I wont stop untill the work is done. kinda weird I know but I am an odd one anyhow so thats normal for me lol.
I enjoy your work and glad you are playing tag it is fun once you get the hang of it.
nice to meet you and hope to see your work up in here more and more John.
PEACE BMW

[lor]

Look at this poem/story. I saw it long ago & remember it
http://www.lovethissite.com/crackedpot/

The music is by Neil Young...who had polio as a boy and has epilepsy.

I thought of it when I read FinLady's post.

[john4]

So many thanks to Finlady, Burntmarshmallow, and lor for your responses! Yes, I did read the "cracked pot" story, what a way to remind us we all have our idiosyncracies, but of benefit to everyone. Must put some more poems of mine on here: will do that today. I love you all.

[john4]

THE WILD MOORS
Too many times I wandered
the wild moors
alone,
too many times I tempted
the weather
and survived dry;
too many times I heard Voices
and panicked,
wind in my face,
eating my bald head,
now I am content - at least for now.
Too many times I struggled
uphill,
too many times I was scared
of my Voice,
now I am in control
while the rain lashes my soul,
now I am content – at least this hour.
Too many times I gave way
to the Voice,
too many times I didn’t understand,
now I am master of the Voice
while the clouds gather
ominously,
now I am content – at least this trek.
Too many times I heard
the souls who got lost here,
too many times souls got lost
in the mist,
too many times a haunting Voice
whispered,
but I am content – at least on this rest.
Too many times I’ve trekked
this slushy path,
too many times I’ve watched
as it came to dusk,
the curlew distant far,
not many times a screaming Voice was
conquered,
but I am content: now I am in control.
I am content on the wild moor
as the clouds disperse once more,
these days I talk to my Voice
as one
not like the days of yore.
Now I am content:
dark on the moor
but bright in my soul.
With the wind on my back
and a song on my lips
I come off the wild moor
at last;
I have faced down my Voice
with the wind as a friend
now I am content:
it’s passed.