A poem about the process of prose.

Not Fiction

A Novel is not a made-up thing,
a fiction surely, but ill defined
as a work of the imagination,
when it’s not
But more accurately a point of view,
spun out,
the characters taking themselves places
not imaginary
Surprising the writer,
catching him unaware, as life itself
turns sweet or bitter
in a moment on the bus

And it’s these moments on the bus
that make it all worthwhile, that pull
rather than push the work
Plot is simple, plot takes its own course
and when it’s going well
I needn’t steer, don’t touch the wheel,
just run along behind,
trying to catch up and not be left
A film in my mind, all camera angles,
not set to wait for sunsets streaming color,
but trying to nail down the quality
of light that’s there

Poetry Collection: Broken Pieces
This poem is included in
Jim Freeman’s
poetry collection
available here in print
or as an e-Book
in your favorite formats.