Every once in a while I am overcome (dramatic word, I know) by a mood. That mood is best described as somber or morose or more than serious. I have learned that when this mood hits I should expect a musing. I get the sudden strong urge to write and then something happens and after an indeterminate time I am left with something that I didn’t have before. That is what I call a ‘musing.’
Tonight it hit in the form of poetry. I haven’t written poetry of my own volition for over a decade, so this was odd. I call this one “The Other”A table has two sides. One for me. One for the other. That is what tells me, me—that is what tells me that there is an other. The other is there somewhere and hasn’t found the way to the other’s side of the table. Hasn’t been able to face me. I don’t even know if the other wants to face me. I don’t even know that the other knows there is, me, the other to the other. But I know there is an other. The table has two sides. I wait at one, and then there is the other.
I hope next time that the musing produces a full length novel. Poetry has always been so weird to me.