Lydia Lydia, O Lydia, in your stories you were stripping yourself down, thin to begin with, slowly unloading a very heavy burden with in your craft.
- Yes, I come from Lydia,
I come physically, away, from, Lydia,
But to what to what to what to what do I come,
What does it mean, to write,
What the hell does it mean, to write?
Our stories are of living, it means simply living
All the while setting senses down with words widening
Making marking making marking whole
Telling truths, it means truth,
It means in Nazi concentration camps
They immediately killed
With scraps of their own writing,
For this reason,
It means writing because you write
Could not stop,
It means with attention in-attention taking pencil taking Pen pen pencil in hand
Placing keys under fingers
Paper — white yellow green onionskin cream
It means making tangible for another
A cold shower or sweet, the taste of an orange.
It means listening listening listening to that voice
Those whispers no one else hears
Those shadows no one else sees,
Listening listening listening,
Then, it’s not about having time season reason license
Not a room of one’s own
Not even a space of one’s own
Sometimes just a box with holes for air,
A toilet seat,
A bathroom with a door.
It means being a writer,
Writing through it all,
Or not writing,
But coming back
To this first and forever lover
Who is always
Being a writer means sanding like an intricate sculpture Shaping into words our living our lives it means impact It means having power power over what was before The unnamable, unspeakable.
It means work work work work creating a new a new
A new world, a new universe,
A forest from one seed
An ocean from one river
A continent from one mountain
It means chaos becomes light
It means being a writer
It means simply writing writing writing writing.
What Does It Mean To Write © Susan Lynn Gesmer, Written, early 1981, edited December 2015/November 2017.