Some years ago, I wrote a bit of a rant in my journal that I never expected to share with anyone, given what seemed to me the extreme and perhaps strange passion expressed there.
As I get older, I find that I get out of my way more and more, which has led me to progressively renounce the “terminal uniqueness” and self-consciousness that often characterize youth (pubescence especially).
So, one day, almost a year ago, I came upon that poem-rant and next thing I knew I was submitting it for publication to the Whirlwind Review, an online literary journal, “dedicated to the intersections of writing and spirituality.”
A few weeks back, two days after my 68th birthday, that poem, “Wanting Words,” was featured on Whirlwind Review to my delight (and not to my embarrassment).
I want to share “WANTING WORDS” with you in case you might enjoy it and, also, in case sharing it might inspire you to share what you may have kept hidden, whether your writing or some other form of expression.
So here goes….
Do I want words the way I should be wanting God?
Willing to give up everything for one enormous gulp
as if words were my air? Dying to lose myself
to a luscious swim in deep ideas,
to a board-whacking dive into the heart of things—
any sacrifice for the sensuousness of my pen on paper?
The sun sets, crickets chant. No one is waiting for
me to make dinner, phone calls, or love. I imagine
nothing else but my next words. Would I give up
any aspiration, appointment, meal, conversation,
love affair, parent-teacher conference, shopping trip,
vacation, compliment, heart to heart anything and
all things for a great poem? For a lip-smacking
steady towards the climax, mind-blowing orgasm of
words—a banner, ribbon, river, continent, a ship
of words, a bridge, an arc, a horizon of words?
Shouldn’t I pant after God this way? God’s breath
on my neck? God’s gaze? The subtle thrill
of God’s embrace taking me into the space
beyond wanting where I am so filled with silence
I do not even think about words.
Or do I meet God
in my words? God celebrating God.
Am I the poem? Yearning only to know
the One who writes me?
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