Last night I started mucking around with a challenge that I had not partaken in for quite some time. Not a challenge, per se, but an investment in my thoughts and creativity that I have dedicated elsewhere for a while.
I wrote a poem. Actually, two poems, but that’s besides the point. The last poem I had written was back in March or April. Before that? January. And before that? I can’t recall.
And yet, getting through the words, stringing things together and painting a picture of thought and emotion… well, I had doubts… Doubts that I’d done the job, doubts that I veiled things enough to not seem obvious, doubts that I had crafted a narrative that made sense in constructing a scene and building a message.
Doubts that I could get a reaction from anyone I shared this with.
A gun-shy poet. That’ll never work.
What it’s worth is purely subjective, as the poem itself will say. That applies to more than just writing, but people and things.
A Word’s Worth
The value of a swaying word;
A small object from a box of clutter
Tucked away in the attic of
Memories and the future-tense
Is it beheld with the worth of
Treasures that too often find their way
Into the waste bin?
It’s value deemed nothing more than
That of an occupant of precious space
That would be a better host for
The next fallacy?
A cherished word can only
Absolve the peruser
And reside, idle, in the attic
Aspiring for the hour where
Its sway and eloquence are basked upon again
© 2011 John Fontana