Every Day Is a Poem by Jacqueline Suskin (manga ereader txt) 📗

and focus. Only in this pause will I be able to prepare myself for a poem that wants to arrive.

There are countless methods to make a conversation with the universe more direct and accessible. I could write an entire book on the practices that work for me, but it’s really up to you to feel your way through this and build a daily ritual that’s most appropriate for you and your poetic voice. Here are some of my favorite techniques for finding clarity and getting grounded.

A Room of One’s Own

Do whatever you can to create a writing space for yourself: a corner of the house that’s just yours or a room where you can shut the door and be with your thoughts. Solitude is such a huge part of my writing practice. In solitude, I best hear what the universe is telling me; I can hear the poems emerge. I give myself a retreat at least once a year. That means I make time for myself outside of my home, somewhere special, even if it’s just for one weekend, and I go there to write, to think, and to just be. I like to go to Joshua Tree for my creative seclusion. There’s no temptation there to connect with other people. It’s just me and the wide-open desert. Most of my greatest writing happens on retreat, when I have uninterrupted time to read through my journals, to hear my own voice, to speak each poem aloud, and to know that no one will disturb me. It can take some time to find my rhythm when I go on retreat. I’m slow to start, so I need a lot of time to settle in. Knowing this helps me plan how long I need to be away (the more time, the better), and it helps me be gentle with myself as I find my flow. And then, when it comes, it comes on fast, and nothing is in the way. Maybe you can’t afford to set that much time aside and will need to craft your rhythm quickly. Maybe you’ll get only a few sentences on the page. I always remind myself that it isn’t the number of words that matters but the quality of time spent with my voice that’s most important. Having the space to discover that is a crucial aspect of a writing practice.

A Poet Loves to Walk

So many of my favorite writers talk about the importance of walking. Thoreau wrote an entire book about it, and Mary Oliver often discusses how walking is a main part of her writing practice. In Zen Buddhism, walking can be a form of meditation. For me, the time I spend walking helps me move through thoughts I’m stuck on and ideas for writing I can’t seem to push past. I always try to carry a notebook with me when I walk because I know that the motion of my steps will create newness. When the blood and the breath are moving, the mind can calm itself enough so that the voice of everything around me is that much more potent and audible. Just being outside is helpful, staring at the trees, taking off my shoes and socks to put my bare feet on the ground — but when I walk, I find a calmness in my mind like no other. While I’m walking, the world communicates with me in remarkable ways. So many of my poems and songs arrive when I’m on a walk.

The Walk to the Mailbox

When I want to send something by mail,

I make my way down the hill.

At the intersection, I slip envelopes

into the blue box and turn around

to climb back up. The Hollywood sign

is a small white phrase tucked between buildings.

I pass dogs and dirt yards, the alley

with the ficus tree, the cacti that peek

over the cement fence, bigger every year.

I step over the two squares of concrete soaked in oil

and wave to the men working on their drag racer.

There is the lot with the rooster, the driveway

with the calico cat who likes to be pet, the big

bush of rosemary where bees gather, the row

of giant Jacaranda and the fat patch of bamboo.

I breathe and move my feet. All I have to do

is a simple task. This is not a forest path,

the air is dry and the sidewalk stinks,

but I cherish it all the same.

I could also call this section “a poet needs to move” and write about all the ways in which I have to attend to my body in order to remain open and clearheaded. Writing requires a lot of sitting, and if my body hurts, I can’t hear the universe as well. So I dance a lot too. I dance all the time. I stretch a lot, I get my breath going, I swim and make sure my muscles are awake and my spine has been tended to. We can’t just sit there and hope for the best.

We have to get our blood flowing

for the poetry to flow as well.

Make Time for Visions and Dreams

Just as I set aside time and space for writing and walking, I make room for stillness. When I close my eyes and sink into a meditative state, I find a rush of visions swirling in my mind. If I let myself go deeper, it’s typically these visions that offer a richness to my poetry. We can’t just rely on our surface thoughts to make a good poem; we have to delve further into the subconscious where our unique perception dwells. This is where the good stuff comes from. The wacky, the weird, and the truly exceptional images that make a poem stand out often arrive from the depths, the inner workings of the self that go unheard and unseen if we don’t give ourselves the opportunity to pay attention. For me,