ssrprotege
06-10-2008, 01:40 AM
I imagine this midnight moment's forest:
Something else is alive
Beside the clock's loneliness
And this blank page where my fingers move.
Through the window I see no star;
Something more near
Though deeper within darkness
Is entering the loneliness:
Cold, delicately as the dark snow
A fox's nose touches twig, leaf;
Two eyes serve a movement, that now
And again now, and now, and now
Set neat prints into the snow
Between trees, and warily a lame
Shadow lags by stump and in hollow
Of a body that is bold to come
Across clearings, an eye,
A widening deepening greenness,
Brilliantly, concentratedly,
Coming about its own business
Till, with a sudden sharp hot stink of fox,
It enters the dark hole of the head.
The window is starless still; the clock ticks,
The page is printed.
This poem does describe well about inspiration. It doesn't come to us when we force them to come; it will come when it is willing to.
I have experienced this a number of times, the experiences are so magical, and I don't know how I come up with it. Interestingly, it comes when I am not thinking about the topic too hard. I wrote the College Application Essay when I got an inspiration from the TIME magazine with my name being misprinted. Turned out to be one of the best-quality essays. On the other hand, now here I am trying to write two 250-word essays to apply for the special housing program, struggling to revise it, but nothing comes to my mind.
Now that I look at myself and recall the pleasant past experience, not only do I find this paradox "weird," but also intoxicatingly beautiful.
Any experience like this? It's also interesting to see that (especially) Ni doesn't work when I force it to work; Ni works when I let it do its job. It's also ironic to see that I "have to" put little control over my dominant function to make it really function.
Something else is alive
Beside the clock's loneliness
And this blank page where my fingers move.
Through the window I see no star;
Something more near
Though deeper within darkness
Is entering the loneliness:
Cold, delicately as the dark snow
A fox's nose touches twig, leaf;
Two eyes serve a movement, that now
And again now, and now, and now
Set neat prints into the snow
Between trees, and warily a lame
Shadow lags by stump and in hollow
Of a body that is bold to come
Across clearings, an eye,
A widening deepening greenness,
Brilliantly, concentratedly,
Coming about its own business
Till, with a sudden sharp hot stink of fox,
It enters the dark hole of the head.
The window is starless still; the clock ticks,
The page is printed.
This poem does describe well about inspiration. It doesn't come to us when we force them to come; it will come when it is willing to.
I have experienced this a number of times, the experiences are so magical, and I don't know how I come up with it. Interestingly, it comes when I am not thinking about the topic too hard. I wrote the College Application Essay when I got an inspiration from the TIME magazine with my name being misprinted. Turned out to be one of the best-quality essays. On the other hand, now here I am trying to write two 250-word essays to apply for the special housing program, struggling to revise it, but nothing comes to my mind.
Now that I look at myself and recall the pleasant past experience, not only do I find this paradox "weird," but also intoxicatingly beautiful.
Any experience like this? It's also interesting to see that (especially) Ni doesn't work when I force it to work; Ni works when I let it do its job. It's also ironic to see that I "have to" put little control over my dominant function to make it really function.