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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. |
