Elizabeth Barrette (ysabetwordsmith) wrote,
Elizabeth Barrette
ysabetwordsmith

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Poem: "The Spring-Fed Spirit"

I was reading this post by suricattus and it got me thinking...

>> These aren't fresh-water springs that miraculously refill. <<

When she said that, I realized ... mine is. That doesn't mean I never pour anything into it on purpose, but rather that I absorb inspiration from everything around me, all the time, quite naturally, without requiring any explicit effort. It's fun to make the effort sometimes, which is why I do things like my Poetry Fishbowls. But I wouldn't have to.

The metaphors we choose to describe ourselves, our journals, our lives -- they shape our experiences. What Laura said is true for some people, but not necessarily true for everyone. There are different kinds of wells and different kinds of inspiration. Sure, it's good to seek out new experiences. But if I were cut off from that, my soul would still be full.

My Muse drinks from Chalice Well.

And thence came the icon, and this poem.


The Spring-Fed Spirit


Our brains are The Well. The story [the conversation] is a bucket. We dip and filter, pour and drink. Wells aren't self-maintaining, though. A lot of people make that mistake -- "here's your formal education, your well is filled, go forth and spout off." These aren't fresh-water springs that miraculously refill. Go to the well too many times with your bucket, and it can run dry.
– Laura Anne Gilman, LiveJournal 9/8/08


Not all wells are created equal.
There are wells of stone and wells of earth,
wells lined with brick and wells lined with moss.
There are wells of narrow pipe pierced deep to the waterline.
There are cisterns filled only by water poured in from above.

My soul is not a cistern.
My soul is bedrock and springwater.
My inspiration is squeezed upward from the earth.
My stories spout from a spring-fed spirit.

My Muse drinks from Chalice Well.
She cups her hands in cool water
and admires the music as it trickles free.
My Muse plays naked in the rain
and does not fear the wind.
My Muse eats snow in winter,
sips fog in springtime.

All the water in the world
is hers for taking.
All the words that touch water
anywhere on Earth
may float upward to the daylight of my lips.

Oh, I could pour tapwater
down the well of my soul…
Oh, I could go down with a bucket
if I wanted to drink dust…

but I’d rather lap from my bare hands
and let my listeners kiss wildness from my lips.
Tags: paganism, poetry, writing
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