I sat down, early enough in the night, after my two small boys had been put to sleep for the evening, and set out in search of words. I was in search of any words that might grip me for use in a poem at a later date. Initially intending to account for the ones I had an interest in, but then, sitting on my bed with my book, I began choosing words that I did not intend on choosing. Words I had not expected to notice, stood out. With a pen and notebook by my side, I began with the first words I encountered…
Words like, revel, crown, moths, circlet, slayer, and ghost. With no intent on making them work in a poem as of yet, just collecting them to have. The list grew larger, and as it did, so did the words themselves in my list. Words like, absurdity, inebriated, and propensity, made way to words more grand in the minds eye, such as indecipherable, speculatively, and surreptitiously.
My list grew longer, the hour later, and my interest in the story itself far richer than it had been had I chosen to read without locking those words into my mind. Should they have remained in the subconscious train of speeding through sentences, I am not sure I would have been able to recall them. I did not sleep that night in my search for words, until that first book was finished. I went to bed, an extensive list waiting to be picked apart in the morning. Yet, in the morning, I excused myself from feeling as though my list should be concluded. I had an entire days worth of hours in which I could search for words, and why waste it?
I opened another book, and began reading. Words struck me differently this time, than they had when I began the other book with this mindset. This time I was seeing all of the words. The ones I would have looked over, found me, and so I kept them, in a list opposite the first. During this second book, I had much less time available to read, and in this case, read much less than I did the night before. Due to these circumstances my list was shorter, still, the words abundant in their meanings and I delighted in some of their definitions. Words such as, brambles, wizened, and verminous. All lovely, interesting literary pieces to a future puzzle, and so I wondered, would these be the ones I used? To choose only five of the words on both of my lists, it seemed a difficult task. Both lists together totaled at 45 words. One decent, hearty sentence, can contain 45 words if you so choose. So how would I decide of these words, which five words best fit in the poem I had yet to fathom? I looked at my lists, and I focused on the end of the longer words, the words I could utilize far easier, the ones that gave my mouth more to work with. Without knowing the theme or base for the poem I intended to write with the following five words.
The first word, meaning undeniably, was incontrovertibly. The second word, I understood despite its meaning, was indecipherable. The third was a word my mouth had trouble forming, and even still. I would use it to explain my feelings on verbalizing it, I would like to avoid notice or attention, while saying surreptitiously. Still, I chose to use it. While that may seem self-contradictory, or absurd, so is the definition of my fourth word choice, paradoxical. Lastly, and I should find its definition suits my feelings of it being last as it is a favorite of the five, I chose the word grudgingly, which means an act of reluctance or resent. These five words, had little more than their own rough definition staring me down as I pondered how they would become a working unit within a prose of sorts. Prose, being a word I adore, I began to think of a boy writing prose, and the words of my choosing having to do with that boy and his writing. Then, I let the words find their places among an event that seems far fetched enough but exists because the words demanded it. This was my mindset, my method, and my making of a poem, after twenty four hours of searching for words, and choosing only five of them to use in that poem that had no sustenance to it at the start.
Literary Lover of Loss, a Poem for their Presence.
The boy who wrote prose about specters, did so incontrovertibly.
Yet those who opposed, turned up their nose, and scoffed at the boy, “Indecipherable!”
Hanging his head, the boy went to his bed, but wrote words on spirits, grudgingly.
Unbeknownst to most, yet still turned up at the nose, they scoffed further still, “Paradoxical!”
With words on their wisps, those ghosts in their midst, defaced the school black boards, surreptitiously.
The Cruel Prince, Holly Black
Stardust, Neil Gaiman