The World Waiting to Be
Poems About the Creative Process
Paperback: 108 pp.
Published: 2008
Price: $15.95
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Praise:
Brainstorming is a long and complicated process where many ideas go in and out of one's head. The World Waiting to Be: Poems About the Creative Process is a collection of poetry from award winning and widely published poet Louis Daniel Brodsky speaking on something he must deal with daily, along with many other writers - the creative process. The World Waiting to Be is sure to please and inspire writers as they stew about what to write next. "The Light of the World": The pen sputters like a wet match,/As I draw it across imagination's strip./Reluctantly, it throws off ineffectual sparks, While I start over repeatedly./Finally, the ineffable flame explodes at its tip, Illuminating all that my eyes hold focused/Before my trembling mind-/ the metaphor ignited.
—Midwest Book Review
Whitman says that "a great poem is no finish . . . but rather a beginning," and Brodsky sings this electrically in his latest book. Words are fertilization and birth; they speak being and become flesh. Creativity springs from the abyss to forever avoid the void. Blues hum and euphoria booms in the mini-creator poet who agonizes or wonders in "that evanescent just before" and finally writes life into the "grave" of the empty page, shouts into its "white silence." Through words about words and metaphorized metaphors, The World Waiting to Be is both lamentation and love song to creative inspiration and the intersection of time and eternity in the scribbling act. Brodsky pep-talks his pen into tumescent potency "Until all empty space/Is finally filled with its sprawling existence."
—David Herrle, editor of SubtleTea
Click here to read David Herrle's notes on The World Waiting to Be
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Arrows
My pen is never still.
It quivers perpetually,
Like an arrow shot into the hard bark
Of a pithy patrician oak
Frozen in a shrill forest.
The feather-fletched shaft
Reverberates between my fingers,
Head and heart.
I draw back each overtone,
With inspiration’s bowstring,
And catapult its echoes at giants
Waiting, behind the glass dome,
To crash through, sack my intellect,
Pull the arrow from the tree,
And snap its magic in two.
Now that I’ve stood guard myriad years,
Hand, heart, shaft, and oak
Have fused into the bow
Poetry loads with metaphors
It perpetually shoots into my soul.
