scene from a distend valley
a hand in moist grass.
I like writing poetry, but I have no clue what I am doing. The only judge is in my head and in that sense it’s a pure self-centered creation.
Within photography there are certain rules, and I tell myself that I know those rules even when I go more “artsy” where the line between just a picture and art is thin and open for endless discussions.
With poetry I have no boundaries besides that it must “feel” nice or that it must fit within a few unconscious grammatical rules. It’s a story in my head that gets realized whilst writing and juggling with words. If the words tell the story that was created simultaneously I smile, read it one more time and go on. It’s not an act or a thing I do, it just happens like any other creative process.
Because it’s not a skill I learned like carpentry I cannot judge myself, I have to rely on the judgment of others, a teacher and that’s difficult.
There are only a few good teachers and many more students that think they can teach. The chance I meet on is small, that I would recognize him or her is even smaller.