Is it that the poem wants, or does not want, to be written? You hear these things said.
One view, a materialist one, say, might go – write a word, write another word, use your hand, or voice, however you write, pen, vocal cord, keyboard. The volition is yours, the poem’s volition is a nonsense.
Want, will (let alone The Will) and, doggone it, our old mate, desire – are they individual, if not material?
Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
Between the Shadow? (note the unfashionable caps) Could you touch this shadow? Hmm. Another nonsense, perhaps. A brain wave? But my brain ain’t waving at the mo’.
Is the inarticulate material? Is it merely a lack or negation – or something ‘real’? A black hole kinda thing? Then what to make of possibility (my old friend). Just circumstances, or a wish.
How common is the ground? Most days, my ground is made of artifical carpet fibres set down on concrete and steel girders, four floors above the asphalt and concrete street placed on the sandstone of this city built on stolen land. NAIDOC Week has just passed but can't ever forget.
Looking for that gap, or opening, between my own skin and the big bad dangers of the universal, if there's no common ground or language. ... Just being a bit tentative (burbling?).