Robert Burns.
Now there's a poet I understand. A rowdy rogue he probably was, but who can understand which hearts God decides to make into poets?
I'm working on a poem right now. There's more to that statement than meets the eye. For one thing I haven't written one for months and months. And I was beginning to wonder if I ever would again. Then there's the "working on" part of that sentence. Used to be, if it took me more than half an hour to write a poem, I would throw it out. Now for some reason, I'm not in such an almighty rush to get them finished. It IS important to get those first impressions down on paper. That part I still do quickly. But then it's like a piece of roughed out sculpture and is ready to be refined. I'm patient enough these days for refining. And asking myself these questions: What is it you are really trying to express? What quality are you describing? What emotions are you defining? And I keep my scribbled and scratched out sheet of paper around for days and days moving verses, changing words, narrowing down the broad thoughts into the specific ones. It's altogether pleasurable, this process that once drove me to discouraged distraction. Funny what a few years can do to you as a writer.
Tomorrow, the fruits of my labors….