There is something lovely about sitting in the grainy light of dusk and scribbling poetry in one’s notebook, then sipping some fizzy fruit juice and tracing the gorgeous pictures in one’s 1945 copy of John James Audubon’s Birds of America.
That was Wednesday evening. I sat and stared at empty pages, wrenching my brain to see if every drop of creativity had been squeezed out already.
I found there was a few drips left.
I love found poetry because it exercises my imagination within boundaries and bends my assumed picture of The Creative Process.
I discovered this sticker collection earlier this year when I was running out of things to send to pen-pals in that month I figured handwritten quotes and small art things were not enough, and I knew it was the perfect thing to cut into small squares and share with friends.
It’s just a sticker pad of phrases and words and numbers in antique typography a lot like those magnet poetry tins I see around, littering desks, books, and fridges. Or like the little clippings of words I cut out of my magazines and advertisements in hopes to find something hidden that was meant – suspended in space and waiting – just for me. The power tingles weakly in my finger tips. Something that hums where is your imagination?
Sometimes I’m to weary to funnel what I don’t understand. Sometimes I’m too tired to create. But I can still look and find.
It is at least something, and it is somewhere to start.
Found poetry is a good oiling of rusty parts.