Joyce Ashuntantang, Ph.D.
When it hits me, my pupils dilate, my breathing doubles in speed, my heart races. I can't contain myself; I smile and sometimes notice the onset of perspiration. At this juncture, I must rush to the object of my desire. I get there with my left hand on my bosom trying to stop my heaving breasts from tearing through my blouse.
Then I grab it, pause for a minute to see what my opening action should be because what I do first, matters...no it's not what you think—this is what happens to me when an idea hits me and I have to write, especially poetry. It is like labor, the urge and pain, and the idea itches to come out. I become restless as I churn the lines in my head.
Take my poems for example. Most of them are triggered by an event or a word said. I'll use the example of one of "Talk To me"**, a recent poem that has garnered several reactions from readers:
A close friend of mine had to go to the airport to pick up his wife who was returning from a long trip. I asked him how he planned to welcome her. He then made as if that question was baseless or “sans objet" a la Paul Biya.
Well, I told him that I know he had missed his wife, so he should express that when she arrived. His reply was "I do not have to verbalize everything. Any wife who does not understand her husband's looks has a problem."
In fact he threatened to write a poem beginning with the lines "I looked at her and she did not understand". By the time I hung up the phone, I was gripped with instant labor. Something was dying to come out in response to his premise. For the next two hours my body was claimed by this desire and I played scenarios in my mind and toyed with words and before long I grabbed the mouse, and caressing it with my right hand the first words poured out of me:
I understand the language of your body
The verbs of your fingers
And the nouns of your look
But talk to me tonight.
After these first words there is usually a release and I can often take a break. But the break is not in my brain because as I go around doing my other chores, the other stanzas like other babies left in the womb struggle to come out...
**visit my blog, Batuo's World, for remainder of poem.
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