When it is hard to continue, take a poem that speaks to you and write one of your own. Here’s one based on a poem in Rilke’s Book of Hours.
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And God said to me: Write
I am the only judge
And my judgment was given when you were born.
I will take whatever you give.
There is no measurement other than your doing.
I will take your effort that tiny seed
and plant it in the earth soaked with tears.
What worries you now that you know
Your work is the vessel for my love?
Here’s a poem written by Vicky, the seventeen-year-old protagonist in the novel I am currently working on.
The Language of Love
Love is that quiet thing that slides in on socked feet,
And doesn’t say I’m here.
Or love is that whispered word not perfectly heard,
Like in a game of telephone.
Sometimes I think that to be sure and true,
To love must always be past tense,
When at the end you sigh,
I loved you. Every second of my life with you. I loved you.
And maybe silence is the soil of love,
Where it can dig deep roots,
And speak only when it blooms.
The wind and rain
Carve out our days
With whispers of eternity.
Why we are hollowed
Is not a question.
The plain earth seeks
Its own treasure
And quickens beauty’s work
By waiting.
The wind’s unspoken prayer
The tip-toe and the torrent of the rain
Melt our hardened rock
Into love’s space.
How will we bear
Infinity
This wound of time
Resplendent.
We will draw
To our inverted climb
To our perilous descent
The bold explorer’s step
The friend of wind and rain.
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