When I Write

When I Write
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When I Write
I write because it is part of me.
I write because it makes me happy.
I write, because when I do, I feel better. On those days it is as though a cloud lifts, and I see the world with brighter colors.
When I write, sometimes – most of the time – I write poetry. I feel images surfacing. I hear words in my head. I need to write them down. To give them a home in black on white. To see the undulating scribble of my handwriting. I hear the juxtapositions of sounds, the sometimes alliteration, the short and the long, the rhythm of waves crashing on the shore, the allegory, and the symbol.
When I write, I hear bells in my head. I watch raindrops fall on mushrooms. I glide under the lid of my own fantasy, hurled into a sky of rolling clouds. I ride a magic carpet on which I am truly me, more than me and also, at times, petulant me. I let the child me roam. She picks wildflowers . She smells them, and plucks petals pitilessly.
When I write, afterwards, I sometimes discover hidden secrets. I find thoughts that were seeking to be expressed, emotions that begged to be unleashed, feelings that hoped to be felt.
When I write, I oscillate between poetry and prose. I let my pen roll in its own ecstasy on the paper. I am transported to faraway lands; sunset in a dusty red desert, full moon in a mossy old growth forest, populated by elfin maidens.
When I write, I see with my ears, touch with my eyes, hear with my heart. I am called into the House of Language by an ancient muse named Synesthesia. I have been courting her since my teenage years. She is a rebel at heart, yet as old as the hills. She carries me to lavender shores, where monkeys drum, butterflies hum, and mostly everyone else dreams
When I write, I am saved by words. I am purified by the emptiness that follows. I let myself lay on the brink of uncertainty, even fear. I walk precariously on a tightrope that I tried to challenge many moons ago for the first time. Now I yearn to each day. It has taught me to take risks. Within it I see the river flowing. Through it I am shown that no moment is ever repeated. No context can be remembered so accurately that the imagination wouldn’t need to be beckoned in as an ally.
When I write, I write in the present. I write in the past. I write in the future. I write from the first person, from the second and third; I write for all the people. I write to pour myself into all my parts, to fill all my pores.
When I write, I feel my heart swell and get bigger.
When I write, I am me.

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Language


speak my name
over the air waves
a sudden rainbow
arcobaleno dipinto
a verse in time
una favola
a bedtime story

I came into the world
hearing sounds from different tongues
meaning attached and words unknown
repeating—discovering
I forged my own shell
hard and soft
geometric and uneven

sometimes irreverent
wading through phonics
turning tunes into imaginary dialects
I jumbled the stories you told me
and painted my world yellow with nicknames
flying elephants
pink flamingoes
green Iguanas

“Perché il Black Cat è andato via?”
I would tire you endlessly with
my two-year-old questions with no answers
“Why did the Black Cat go away?”

Why is the sky blue?
Why am I your daughter?
Why did I pick you?
Why am I lonely?

Crocheting a rope
from a magic toy mushroom
Funghetto magico
I would sit for hours
staring at the chickens
listening to their cackles

I watched the sun rays streaming into my room
they made beautiful streaks on the ceiling
what is the word: soffitto

Sounds in multiple languages
sifting through my mind
in time meaning comes into focus
an ever-increasing discovery
of self
of thought

The endless possibilities
an inside world that can express what you fish for
terse and dry
intense and focused
widespread and colorful
emotional and dramatic

Once I closed the doors behind me
I found I was inside the world of words
Parole parole parole

symbols—sounds—metaphors
onomatopoeia

endless creation