CACOPHONY OF SILENCE

There is one thing a poet hates
more than a page
that refuses to be filled –
it is coming across words
that profess
or are sworn
to silence.
I had a pen
I truly loved
until it announced
early one morning
it was taking
a vow
of iambic celibacy.
Poems once pregnant
with possibility
grew cloistered
and habitual.
As I turned
from Erato’s altar
she called after me,
“Your pen
is out of ink.”

AN INKLING

Writing is an art form
that very many never see
but the unseeing of the work
is what elevates it to art.
This is what you often hear
from the unpublished, or even
from the denizens of small
press purgatory, the one
the Vatican will never acknowledge,
for the poets corner of heaven
is so deeply hidden away.
The words on the page
know better, they see the beauty
as they tumble from the pen,
and need no confirmation.

AN INKLING

 

He says he has discovered that the best
way for him to write is to ignore the pen
totally, to just let it lie on the desk doing nothing.
It should be in close proximity to paper,
for pens need that to complete their existence
or at least to give them purpose to go on.
He also needs to avoid the siren’s call
the emanates from the keyboard
far too frequently for his taste.
No one is willing to believe him, “Just write,”
they say, but he knows that words
are merely that, and meaningless without
the context only a reader can provide,
even if that reader is he, and so he stares
at the pen and page and in time
he becomes aware that the pen is ready
and then, and only then, does he allow it
to move his hand across the paper.

A POET IS

A poet is a child who
on seeing a blank page
must fill it with dreams

hears the song of the nightingale
in the din of passing traffic

comforts the lonely mother recalling
the pain of a thousand births

sees in each passing cloud
the tears of a generation

feels the heat of the sun
amidst the winter’s blizzard

carries the bones of young men
from the fields on which they fell

cries with the child
hobbling on war shattered legs

curses the generals whose souls
have been cast off before battle

cannot forget, trading
nightmares for dreams.

DEFIANCE

The stone defies the flame,
drawing it in
unyielding,
until it is licked
by the snow of winter

The page defies the words,
denying them purchase,
they are flat
without eyes
to see them
the repose
unbroken

The barren earth
defies the king
who orders it fertile
as sand swirls
engulfing
the palace
tearing at its face
casting it
adrift

The beginning
defies surcease
for it is new
in this moment
and in the next
and so on
and on
a wave
on a borderless
sea