Saturday, May 12, 2012
Back in...high school, a grumpy poet came to my English class to discuss his work. I was all kinds of serious back then about pretty much everything, my sense of humor came later or, and these things are hard to pin point, it may have begun to take form in that very room after grumpy poet's presentation.
When he opened up the floor for questions, I eagerly raised my hand and asked, "Where do you get your inspiration?" I was all studious and smiles, the student every teacher dreams about.
In the snarkiest, most condescending tone he replied, "Unless you are referring to breathing, which I am doing constantly, I do not get inspiration."
I was all kinds of stirred up after that, if I'd had a tail it would have been twitching. If I'd had claws, well, you know.
I felt affronted and confused. Sure, right, we inhale, breathe, respiration, inspiration...I get it. Pretty much, but he was missing my point, right?
I'm no poet, but poetry and prose are bedfellows, making them intimately related. And despite feeling deterred for about half a second I've been writing in some form or another ever since that rude day and before that, since I learned to put pen to paper. I most certainly draw inspiration, in addition to the involuntary bodily function.
I see inspiration in faces, places and an orange melting sun. I hear inspiration in the sound of laughter carried across a busy street and a gravely voice that has a sincerity to it that reminds me of jazz. I taste inspiration in a soft serve twist, in a juicy strawberry and a glass of water that refreshes. I feel inspiration in a hug, in a stone smoothed by a river and the fit of a dress, as if it were made just for me.
Inspiration is everywhere, you just have to look dear, grumpy poet.