It was a long week and I am not sure, in my tiredness, where this poem came from, but it appeared on the horizon. I thought I would try to let it write itself.
Listen–
Stories seek space
A space where they come to life
A space to speak their words.
Listen deeply–
Some stories
Of those oppressed
Remain unheard.
Listen with your heart–
Lean into those words,
Give those voices life
Join them with yours.
The power of creation is a gift, and the writer is a fool who thinks the gift comes from inside themselves alone.
Even the most selfish writer must admit that ideas come from outside the body---whether this means the people, places, and things that form the inspiration for a story; the existing works of art the writer loves; or the language in which their ideas find expression---an idea is never the exclusive property of the writer, but exists halfway between the writer and the world.
