An author in esteem only, I return to writing fiction,
though my literary tendons have atrophied, decayed,
after all these comatose years. They will not trust me,
preferring to sleep folded in the footlocker at the edge of my bed,
(muttering pretty snips of sentences while they dream)
but still they are glad to be out, tumbling words
across my page in a red patter; my house is littered
with fledglings and ancient eggshells.
Under the clarity of instinct, they have taken
a hacksaw to industrious panic, to the lubricious want of status,
and in doing so claimed a second childhood; they are clowns,
grinning from within the jaws of a toothless lion.
This poem was written in response to Poetry Prompty #114 on Read Write Poem.
Gibson & Co, 1873
When it comes to creating any form of art, what do you think is the best balance between the motor of ambition and the inspiration that comes from aimless play? In other words, how much should an artist be goal-oriented and how much should s/he practice open-ended experimentation?