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How does a poem emerge? So many ways to do it right, says Rosemerry. But in this episode, we take an intimate and critical look at one poem, “For When People Ask,” and talk about the genesis of the poem, how it changed and transformed, how the metaphors grew and how people responded to it. We also talk about saving first drafts–or not, trusting the process, leaning into uncertainty, letting our creative process be led by honesty, getting our egos out of the way, and, of course, paradox.
**
For When People Ask
I want a word that means
okay and not okay,
a word that means
devastated and stunned with joy.
I want the word that says
I feel it all all at once.
The heart is not like a songbird
singing only one note at a time,
more like a Tuvan throat singer
able to sing both a drone
and simultaneously
two or three harmonics high above it—
a sound, the Tuvans say,
that gives the impression
of wind swirling among rocks.
The heart understands the swirl,
how the churning of opposite feelings
weaves through us like an insistent breeze
leads us wordlessly deeper into ourselves,
blesses us with paradox
so we might walk more openly
into this world so rife with devastation,
this world so ripe with joy.
By Christie Aschwanden4.9
6565 ratings
How does a poem emerge? So many ways to do it right, says Rosemerry. But in this episode, we take an intimate and critical look at one poem, “For When People Ask,” and talk about the genesis of the poem, how it changed and transformed, how the metaphors grew and how people responded to it. We also talk about saving first drafts–or not, trusting the process, leaning into uncertainty, letting our creative process be led by honesty, getting our egos out of the way, and, of course, paradox.
**
For When People Ask
I want a word that means
okay and not okay,
a word that means
devastated and stunned with joy.
I want the word that says
I feel it all all at once.
The heart is not like a songbird
singing only one note at a time,
more like a Tuvan throat singer
able to sing both a drone
and simultaneously
two or three harmonics high above it—
a sound, the Tuvans say,
that gives the impression
of wind swirling among rocks.
The heart understands the swirl,
how the churning of opposite feelings
weaves through us like an insistent breeze
leads us wordlessly deeper into ourselves,
blesses us with paradox
so we might walk more openly
into this world so rife with devastation,
this world so ripe with joy.

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