by Carolee Sherwood
The idea for my most recent poem came from a dream I had about being tempted to sit in a tiny, fragile chair. I knew it was too small for me. In the dream, someone even told me so. A high school boy. In a “that-chair-is-really-old” and “your-backside-is-very-large” sort of way, gently suggestive of the fact that I may want to find another chair. It’s a miserable dream.
Even worse, it probably relates to recent failed attempts at weight loss, and not to my belief that I just don’t fit (think Goldilocks and the three bears) in my own life. But I wrote it down in my journal, and when I decided to make a poem out of it, I indulged my need to find something “just right” for me.
It’s the most recent poem I have, and it came from a journal entry about a dream.
It’s fascinating, really, how ideas come to us. I don’t know if we take a lot of time to think about it, but it’s fun to attach images to the quest for inspiration and information.
I imagine people digging. Archaeologists. Paleontologists, Anthropologists. They sift soil through fine screens to capture fragments of other lives, cultures, creatures. When they discover something large, they carefully scoop away the dirt and brush away the dust until it’s revealed, little by little. The last thing they do is yank it out before it’s ready.
I imagine a corporate board room. Twelve suits around the table. Chinese take-out spilling on file folders. Nobody leaves until they figure a way to fix whatever it is that’s wrong.
I imagine a woman in an unsatisfying relationship. She also has a crappy job. Her apartment rattles when trains go by. She decides to start over in some other place. She makes lists — pro’s and con’s — to decide between New Mexico and Wyoming.
I imagine a scientist squinting into the eye piece of a microscope. She develops helpful, reproducible ways to influence how things work. She may try 100 theories. None of them may pan out. She’ll return to the lab every day for the rest of her life. She thinks about slides and samples even in the shower. Especially in the shower.
I imagine some lucky soul waltzing along the sidewalk with a light bulb glowing over his head. He’s happy. He’s contented. Mostly. Except that he’s jealous of the poet on the other side of the street onto whom a piano just fell.
Tell me a story. Where did you find your most recent poem? Answer the survey and then come by and chat about how it happened. Pure inspiration? Your journal? Current events? A prompt site? Read Write Poem? A photograph or image? Another poet’s words? A book prompt? Is the source of your most recent poem a reliable one for you? Do you typically work from the same place of inspiration or do you get messages from numerous methods?
I’m a “let’s-talk-about-our-process” junkie. Whether you are or not, indulge me. Help me get my fix. Stop by the comments and tell me how your last poem happened.![]()
Here’s how the poll dance works: We post a poll and let it ride for a week and a half, and then I’ll talk a little bit about the topic and the results. The poll will stand for a few days after that to allow additional participation. The rotation gives each poll two weeks in the white-hot spotlight.


