A Writer's Notebook, Day One-Thousand-One-Hundred-And-Thirty-Seven

I did my writing tonight, as I always do, but the poems were all rather obsessed with the same ideas.  This happens at times, of course, with an idea working its way out in various guises,  In this case, I was progressing towards something, I think.  In some ways, perhaps each of the poems served as a sort of draft, in this case, clearing the way for a deeper, fresher perspective.  The first poem was superficial, or at least obvious, and when the next poem was on the same general subject, it pushed me to go in a new direction.  Though I was still attempting to communicate related ideas, I was farther in, had waded through the shallow waters, a process that repeated again and again, so that each subsequent poem had to pull from a new place.  It is not always this way, and it is not to say that the earlier poems might not be of value in some ways.  They may be raw and less refined.  Tonight, it felt as if I was moving towards something, but I will have to look over the work again tomorrow when I might have a clearer sense of the work.

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