Imagine your next poem as a small animal burrowed in the ground. It’s a shy little thing, and when there is noise and commotion, it stays safely in its burrow. You know it’s there. From time to time it pokes its nose out of its hole, but you are busy getting and spending, making a great clamor, and it digs itself deeper underground. It is only when you allow for silence to settle in, when you breathe deeply and wait patiently, that it will emerge. Its nose pops up first, then its head and its whole body—and there is your poem—in all its poetic animal glory— waiting for you to write it down.
What is that little animal? That poem? From where does it originate? Does it come from some power greater than we are? Does it come from deep within our subconscious? Yes, and yes again. How many other little animals are hiding in the ground waiting for us to coax them out into the open? We believe there are countless numbers, and that most of us just begin to scratch the surface of our abilities.
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