If I can close my eyes and dip an imagined tongue
into a mountain of whipped cream [sorry - I'm on
a diet; my own universe is currently a forbidden landscape --
too rich!], the pleasure is in knowing I am tasting
my own creation, but that is a pale ghost
of the instant of creation. And most of what we call
"creation" is as ghostly an approximation, for we let
circumstances co-create. We are "inspired" by our
"experiences" (as if we didn't share in THEIR creation).
We have a vital message to impart. We are following
the rules of a genre, delineating social issues, unveiling
a pre-existent beauty -- nothing as simple as "Let there be
whatchamacallit...wait! First let there be a dictionary!...
Well, first a language, good, NOW a dictionary, yes,
there it is, light, that's it! LET THERE BE LIGHT!"
And by the way, to whom am I saying these things?
(All poets must wend from whom to to-whom.)
Let there be someone to whom I'm speaking!
Let there be hearing, someone here to hear!
Let there be HERE. Let there be forests
whose trees are falling, making a noise
that may be heard!
Or maybe it's not verbal, just a sort of "OOHNGE," but
minus the sound and the effort, and occurring in no time
at all, until we see the light and that it is good ("Let there
good! Good!! Oh yes, let there be letting be!") -- all in that
timeless instant, and we say, "Let the light persist,"
and the instant becomes timeful, and stretches out
into space, full of changing light.
For pure creation (which is total freedom), there can be no reason.
Any reason is a barrier, as is any source other than the point
of creation (you, me). Inspiration is a name I call myself
as creator, lest anyone find me guilty of it. I can say,
"I'm innocent! God did it! The Devil did it! Inspiration
made me do it! My brain chemistry made me do it!
I was possessed!" Yes, possessed: I've been had
by my own language.
(Language: tongue. Can you lick your nose with your language?)