Cryptic Creativity

I do often stare at my little pieces of knitted words which seem to me as some sort of stutters and stammers emerged from my crisscrossed thought-wires and wonder...Is it something which directly got sprouted from my mind as "leaves on trees"? Or at where did the thought coalesce with the artistry? Where do all these perceived elements stash themselves, later to be spurted at some moment's urging? At times the effusion is so eloquent and at other times I do tap my fingers with a sweaty uneasiness as if the words have some ugly attitude, like we ourselves are "whiplashed between an arrogant over estimation of ourselves and a servile underestimation of ourselves”. (Time to question the creativity).The legendary creative minds wrote of their enchanting and enigmatic process which brim our wonderment. Wordsworth said of it in a poem itself;

 For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasures fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

Coleridge's Kubla Khan occurred while he was in an opium dream...the hangover of the drug lighted his "territory" imagination, transcending the creative confines. But I like to share something incredible and fascinating which I have read recently of the creative inspiration of the American poet Ruth Stone. Ruth Stone lived in rural Virginia and while she use to work at her fields she may sometimes feel a poem from a far off distance, and the poem would be like running towards her like a "thunderous train of air"(as it is described) and she would "run like hell", as fast as she can- she would be chased by the poem - she would run and run to get into her house- grope for a paper and pen- so that she can seize the poem and put it to the page as it would passes through her! And sometimes (the most fascinating part) she would delay in getting the paper and alas, the poem would air through her and at that very moment she would quickly grab a pen and grab the poem too by its "tail' not allowing it to be missed and would pull it back wards and transcribe it onto the page and since it's from "tail to head", the last word will be the first! What an amazing and ineffable feeling that would be!...Imagine you to be hunted by a poem which comes like a "thunderous train of air" and finally getting possessed by it and there it is!-stanza one, two, three -and imagine it to be backwards like she said in the otherwise case! And there was a third possibility too which she had said...sometimes she may totally miss the poem and she would watch it going away from her after the possession, leaving it for another poet! Generous and consoling thought! So if an idea gets stuck in your guts, stuffed and rotted, with all its unwillingness to turn up, then don't get upset...console yourself that someone somewhere may spell that idea more beautifully than you may do. And you yourself may read it later somewhere by someone and may savour it and get lured by it than you may "if it were your own"!