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Writing is like building a house. Mind that you don’t forget the windows! My
first place was a little old house with large windows—and inside was
a Christmas tree with many candles. Christmas
time ... and me a single young woman. My Christmas Fantasy surged forth
from my heart like some upheaval—no sad poem, love—whatever used to
be, hope—whatever will be. Christmas tree light gave me many friends,
still these days. Euterpe tweeted the lyrics my way, and writer Ann-Charlott
Settgast taught me my first steps in poetry and prose, later published
in periodicals and anthologies. I wanted to get along farther and farther.
Right after the fall of the Iron Curtain I started looking beyond my
garden fence and made good friends—more learning. I wrote many types
of poetry (rondeau, sonnet, sonnet cycle, haiku, etc.). But poetic
corsets are likely to restrict the language—so there was free style.
I added tunes to many of my poems, though real composers would do better
jobs. Like a honey bee I keep striving to take good nectar back to the hive, and perhaps the small house
will grow into a large one, one with lots of windows ... and one light
shall never go out. |
