The Problem with Writing (or “And knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart-“)

When I started this blog, my intention was more or less to keep myself writing, and to share it with the few people who already keep up with me. Now, several months later, it seems that several others have been following my blog, and that’s great. I’m so happy that others are reading and commenting on what I’ve been writing.

However, because I work several jobs and am in school full time (well, class starts again in a few weeks), I’m not at the stage where I can post a new, original work every day, as much as I wish it were otherwise. But if I posted every day, they wouldn’t be very good; they would be shitty first drafts and nobody really wants to see those. don’t want anyone to see those.

So my dilemma is, of course, that the more often I post, the more people seem to read and pay attention to my blog on a regular basis. Which I like. And if I post less frequently, then I’m not writing as much and not getting as much exposure and, most important, not improving in my craft. I think I’ve found something of a solution, though…

If I don’t post something original each day, then I will at least try to post a poem or a quote or something I like that someone else has written. After all, one of the best ways to get better at writing is to read good writing, and there’s so much under-appreciated, excellent work out there. It’s a shame that people don’t know about it.

So on the days I don’t write something creative myself, I hope you enjoy Claudia Emerson, or Hemingway, or Nat Perry, or Chase Twichell. Today’s poem is by e.e. cummings, who I find rather out there but absolutely adore. Though I don’t always understand his work, when I do I find that it’s very beautiful. So here is You are tired, (I think)

You are tired,
(I think)
Of the always puzzle of living and doing;
And so am I.

Come with me, then,
And we’ll leave it far and far away—
(Only you and I, understand!)

You have played,
(I think)
And broke the toys you were fondest of,
And are a little tired now;
Tired of things that break, and—
Just tired.
So am I.

But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight,
And knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart—
Open to me!
For I will show you the places Nobody knows,
And, if you like,
The perfect places of Sleep.

Ah, come with me!
I’ll blow you that wonderful bubble, the moon,
That floats forever and a day;
I’ll sing you the jacinth song
Of the probable stars;
I will attempt the unstartled steppes of dream,
Until I find the Only Flower,
Which shall keep (I think) your little heart
While the moon comes out of the sea.

e.e. cummings

Isn’t that beautiful? Beautiful and sad. I can empathize especially with the third stanza, the person who has broken the toys she was fondest of and is “a little tired now; tired of things that break, and— just tired.” Does everyone feel that way at times? I’m not particularly down right now (sometimes I get rather sad), and when I do, that’s usually how I feel. Tired of things that break and— just tired. Just like that. Leave it to e.e. cummings to sum up my more morose feelings in such a jaunty little poem.

And then I love the line “And knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart,” which is why it ended up in the title of this post. I just think it’s pretty imagery, and the words flow well. I can just see this young man, tall and blonde and wearing a cream suit with a bowler hat, standing at some latticed iron gate with a single pink rose. Isn’t he handsome? He looks sad in a loving sort of way – after all, it is a hopeless gate. I like him. He seems kind.

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