I am often asked about the process of writing when being interviewed. Folks are curious about the manifestation of creativity and how it influences writing poetry. While I am certainly not an expert on the subject for anyone else but myself, I strongly suspect the Muse bestows the inspiration upon each of us in a unique manner. We do have gross similarities, like the tools we use, i.e., laptops or hand-written pages, etc., but we also diverge once the synapses fire and begin the journey of creation in each of our minds.

For example, I often dream my writing ideas. I’ve been awakened by lines of text, images, and what I call mental films playing along in my head. This is a curious thing, because I’ve been blind for over thirty years yet I continue to dream as if I’d never lost it. Full technicolor, for sure.

Recently I awoke from a musing and it resulted in a poem, the first poem written in 2020. I also somehow created a fantasy story with a swashbuckling immortal character named Von and a humanoid species called Felini, cat-like creatures with names like Tika, Shona, and Flame. Where the story will take me, only the muse knows but I like where I’m going. I wish I could share the poem, but, now that potential publishers and literary magazines consider posting on a blog “previously published” and will reject an author’s work because of this, I must hold such things aside until published. May the Muse be with you.

Poem from the poetry collection, Upwelling; Poems C 2016 availible on Amazon and Audible
DREAM
© 2016 by Ann Chiappetta

Sleep-film portrays lurching scenes of Disney World
damp pavement trod on by millions of feet.
You stand on the recently dried cobblestones
of Main Street U.S.A.
A somber overcoat hangs on you like a dish rag.
emancipating your regrets.
Tears and mumbled blessings
mix as our faces touch.
Your cheek is cold and cancerous.

Sleep-film shuffles

Scrambling through the Florida downpour
A Barker lures us inside.
My florid yellow jacket drips
Your loose, somber coat is as dry as a shroud.
Inside, double doors lead to a great hall.
Black tie patrons rotate on the dance floor like dolls.
Your arm sweeps in the gala affair,
“A gift for us to remember me.” you say.
I’m aggrieved by your vanity

Flash point warnings ignite around us
like confetti stars
the dolls applaud as they fall.

Fear not, here is something written and previously published.