Donna Z Falcone
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How to Read Big Magic

8/22/2016

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Picture
The others
sailed through the small sea of leaves
happy and smiling,
carefreeing it along,

​there I was,
hung up
like whole row of commas
in boldface,

  all

    the

      way

        through

until it was done
and I
was changed.

And, honestly…
I would tell you what it was about
or what was my favorite part
or why I loved the book’s journey
if only I remembered
that way.

But, I can tell you this –

Go to any store that sells paint.
Stand in front of all the colors.
​Let one pick you.
Buy it.

Let it rest overnight in a forgotten room 
and get up the next morning ahead of the world.

Ask the paint “What now?”
Listen quietly
for as long as it takes.

If it says “Spin me in circles please”
never say “I don’t know how”
-just do it.

If it says “whisper me across the plane”
don’t ask “What plane, where?”
-just do it.

If it says “set me on fire”
swallow your gasping “that’s dangerous!”
-just do it.

If it says “let me stay right there,
smudged under your right eye for at least a day”
just do it-

This paint that picked you
will tell your story.
​
That is where the big magic is.



This poem was a response to a Tweetspeak Poetry prompt
​by Heather Eure: Lose Yourself in a Book. 

​The inpiration book: Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear by Elizabeth Gilbert
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Poems on a String

4/7/2016

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 Inspiration: The Joy of Poetry

Picture
I've been reading a newly released book which is both a memoir and a poetry collection, written by Megan Willome. The Joy of Poetry contains unexpected agony, love, anger, loss, discovery, confusion, darkness, and light. In other words, Joy. Because, isn't Joy, when we find it, comprised of all these and more? 

The Joy of Poetry is not a book in which I dare skim over the pages in search of the good parts. Every part is a good part. There are so many poignant glimpses into the author's heart (and my own), it's not worth the risk of skimming. So, I savor, slowly. Even though it is only 168 pages long, and even though I have been reading it for four days, as of this writing I am only half way through..

​Lately I've been refusing to write much of anything at all, and definitely refusing to go very deep. I've been painting, instead, because sometimes colors flow more freely than words. But today Willome's words invited me, without saying so, to write about not writing. A string of words fell out onto my pages. These words:

my God, don't ask me
to write
a poem-
it's all i can muster 
​to sing
​someone else's words.

~~~~~~~~
​
​anticipated
grieving comes in sucks of air
​swallowed like hot ice

​~~~~~~~~
paper: a place where
trails are blazed with razor blades
​wounds are packed in salt
​
~~~~~~~~
​
i consciously refuse-

avoid the poem's edge i'm in
no mood for bleeding.


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