Finding inspiration is not hard. Inspiration is everywhere. It’s almost overwhelming, leaving the studio to go outside. My being becomes totally overwhelmed by the grandeur and latitude of phenomena. And the gratitude that arises, eludes any was has been. Or any to have been, yet to be. It’s substantially exquisite nature could juice even the most unripe of lemons.
See, the poetry is already there, I merely a surgeon, slice it and present it to the world. The selection process, that has no process, is what’s slightly difficult. My life is poetry. Stories, constant. An infinite stanza, streaming poetry beating to beats of its own accord. It’s own language. Every gesture, activity, condition, sensation, is of a poetic nature.
It truly is spectacular to watch every day.
You’ll never hear ‘it’s about time I wrote some poetry’ nor ‘it is time I did some art’. Never. Allocating time for such activities seems rigid, and ‘work’ related. My whole day is a canvas, and it is most defiantly multi-media.
Finding inspiration in another person, especially that of a creative nature, for me is rare. I don’t know, I guess it’s theirs in a way, and I want my own. Awing and gahing over another artists work seems so pointless. Why not find your own. People can do these amazing things like sing, write, draw or walk a tightrope whilst breathing fire. But it does not mean I find inspiration in them. I feel happy for them, though, that they have found an avenue of self expression.
But it’s more. Maybe it is that, these people really haven’t found their personal poetic language, yet. And this has nothing to do with how you write poetry or anything for that matter. It’s to do with living. Life living. Knowing how to express to release is fantastic, it shifts such a burden, and aids in life digestion.
But not many have entered into the realm of composing. Composing their very own music, from their very own life language. The original poetic stream that is their very own. I haven’t met many true composers of life. Maybe I’m just overly judgemental. Or selfish. Or don’t get out enough.
Sharing this personal poetic beat, is something in itself. Part of me could splendour in its demean alone, but it is too beautiful for that. The poetry is of such magnificence and vivid pulsation that I would feel greedy to keep it from others. I also fear an inevitable gravitational collapse, and it’s unforseen black hole.
If two composers were to meet, composing one another, on their own accords, in their own language, poem, beat. Does their poetry rhythm stay unique, or do they turn obsolete?
A new rhythm. Perhaps.