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Of The Writer

Cascades of ink splayed over the floor
Rustling paper, groaning windows.
The pirouette of the calendar as it lifts its chin up, mockingly.
And a dull brown table, except for some motivating dishes
Which sit upon it alluringly, but impatiently.
Ink whisked over yellowing paper
An exasperated shadow against the curtain
Silhouetted against both fancies and targets.

Now the kink the mouse, next the gentle rub of the keyboard
Writing what, to whom, and why?
An archaic style, a cliched theme, a verbose manner
Pole-vaulting on mere morals- 'strong foundations.'
Too dangerous, success may run thin
There are no listeners, no readers, until the sweat
Has gallantly exhausted itself.
Reflected against an honest screen
Distracted by self, persuaded to leave
On the verge, tug of dreams, tug of new words
Staying on, leaving reflections bereaved.

But why? With no takers, no one who can
Read the thoughts in words that you deemed special.
No one can read minds- and dredge the furrows 
Of doubt that shroud what you put on paper.
No one.

What of those who can't read your words
Who can't decipher their meaning
Yet you write to them, you feel for them
To what purpose? Simple jingles
Would seal the deal
Yet you write them your thoughts
In the words that fit them best.

You write from an intimate personal standpoint,
That anyone else, only has a remote chance
Of understanding. And yet you do not stop
The ink flows, the fingers dance over the keys,
Whatever it be. So no one gets your little piece of art
It's inscrutable, incomprehensible.
Yet you write away the burdens 
And the troves in your mind
Hoping to free it from them but knowing,
That they will now stay with you forever.

You write gibberish- waiting for scholars
To berate you. You invent outlandish things
And mystical people. Or you stick to brass tacks
And write a silly story for a three-year old
That speaks pragmatism in every word.
Laughter engulfs you. People are amused
Most don't care. Yet you don't stop.
Now some are irate. Some exasperated
With your fascination for unknown words
Some fuming at your lack of simplicity
Many charging at you for the opposite.

When do you stop then, not to start ever again?
Let your words answer this question
Whether stacked on a bookshelf or in a tiny little notebook
Privy to some amazing things.
O Writer, you're one determined creature, aren't you? 


Comments

  1. Mickey Ronald15 September 2020 at 05:07

    Great words to express the dielema of a poet, the last line says it all..keep writing.

    ReplyDelete

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