Monday, 23 February 2009

Thinking on the bus

I want to start writing again

poetry

the way I used to.
The way words would come through my mind, channeled
along my arms and
through my hands
onto paper.

Thinking on the bus
the words echo inside
my skull, booming
rattling around
flowing smoothly like a river
In the eloquence of my solitary thoughts
I can write
I can speak
I have the power of words
of expression

I sit on the bus, thinking about
Writing
I wonder, can I write in English
The answer flowing through my head before
the question
has been thought. Of course
it has been the native language of my thoughts
for decades
I have written.
I tentatively try my mother tongue, but to my dismay
(expected though it is)
the words fall like stones, bumping dully off the bottom of my
brain
no echo

I wonder, not quite daring to try
if I could express myself
if I have enough control of the language
if I can find the words, and make others
hear them
the way I wish (or in a completely new way hitherto unthought of)
Can I write in my new country's tongue
or will it fail me
too weak a grasp of the subtleties of
grammar, and spelling, and idioms and meanings.

I want to write. I want to
challenge myself.

I wish I dared share.

1 comment:

Be nice!