Strangely enough, I seem to be able to write a verse or two when I am sad, depressed, mad at the world and at myself. These days I am happy and hopeful and scared to jinx it with as much as a light breeze blowing the wrong way. Maybe it’s because I am so not used to happiness. And – I can’t write. My heart and mind are full of bits of words, images and rosy clouds, but nothing that I can articulate well. I wonder if other people that like to write experience this.
When you think about the best poetry, it does seem to ring true that melancholy is the best companion of a poet (I am not, Gd forbid, counting myself in their midst). Just listen to this:
Поскромнее, — куда как громко!
Боль, знакомая, как глазам — ладонь,
Как губам —
Имя собственного ребенка.
This is from my favorite Marina Tzvetaeva
And this one:
Когда я перестану тебя ждать,
любить, надеяться и верить,
то я закрою плотно окна, двери
и просто лягу умирать…
And this – one of my favorite songs:
On the other hand, here’s Robert Burns:
O my Luve’s like a red, red rose
That’s newly sprung in June;
O my Luve’s like the melodie
That’s sweetly play’d in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I:
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a’ the seas gang dry:
Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun:
I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o’ life shall run.
And fare thee well, my only Luve
And fare thee well, a while!
And I will come again, my Luve,
Tho’ it were ten thousand mile.
Today, I want to write hopeful verses, but I guess I don’t know how to yet. Hoping to learn.