This is another poem on writing. I recently read a comment on a Facebook group by Patrick Gallagher. He essentially said to “get less precious about your writing, because the magic comes, when you don’t have any choice in the matter.”
Using routines and other tortures to ensure regular writing is something most of us struggle with, I expect. And allowing anyone else to hack our work to pieces (i.e. to edit it) seems a fate worse than death. Hence, this poem, voiced by a writer, who considers his work very precious, indeed.
Hope you enjoy it. And again, thanks for stopping by to read!
My work, it is a sparkling gem.
Worth more, than all my years.
I prize it, like a diadem,
It’s theft, my constant fear.
Each word is pure, inviolate.
No man could it improve.
To edit would be violence.
Much worse, to cut, remove.
So much, I treasure every word,
I hoard it all away.
Like Midas filled a room with gold,
And stayed there, all the day,
So too, I sit alone and write,
And read these measured lines.
The sound brings pleasure and delight
To no one’s ears, but mine.
“You fool!” you say, and steal my pad,
And wield my favorite pen.
“This line is dull, and this one, well!
You’ve said it all, again!
What relevance has all this rot?
What planet do you live on?
No one will read it. They will not.
You’re headed for oblivion.”
I bow my head, and hide my blush,
Collapse, in catatonia.
How you malign my diamond,
Calling it cubic zirconia!
I sadly open wide the door.
The fresh air is delicious!
I vow to live my life, once more,
And be, with words, less precious.
Copyright 2021 Andrea LeDew
For a rant on a different kind of editing, read Minor Edits.
For a glimpse of another writer behind the scenes, read The Writer.
For another poem about jewels, read Tribute.