The Art of Writing


Eyes closed, we listen to inner music,
lost in thought and question:

Our spirits ride
to the eight corners of the universe,
mind soaring a thousand miles away

only then may the inner voice
grow clear
as objects become numinous.

We pour forth
the essence of words,
savoring their sweetness.

It is like being adrift
in a heavenly lake
or diving to the depths of seas.

We bring up living words
like fishes hooked in their gills
leaping from the deep.

Luminous words are brought down
like birds on an arrow string
shot from passing clouds.

We gather words and images
from those unused
by previous generations.

Our melodies
have remained unplayed
for a thousand years.

The morning blossoms bloom;
soon, night buds will unfold.

Past and present commingle:
in the single blink of an eye!

Sam Hamill