Archive
10/25/12
Fire Builder
The ink I use to liberate and link the thoughts I think (Which, for so many decades, have been robust, fertile) Seems, these gloomy, gray days of my desuetude, To be losing its lubricous movement, line by cumulative line, Across the blue-ruled pages of my notebook, Diluting its obsessive poetic integrity, Which has lit the fires rising, for nigh on fifty years, From the kindling I've hatcheted To start the logs I've chopped with my pen's axe And stacked, piece by piece, higher than the sky climbs, So that when my intellect, emotions, instincts ignite the match, The entirety of my aesthetic ideas goes up in pen-stroke smoke, Sifts, drifts, disappears into rarefied air, Lifts into the vision I originally conceived for my ideas.
Tonight, the pen I wield refuses to dispense its fluidity, As if all its resident spirits have dried up, their fires banked. No matter how it tries to resurrect my vital ideas, It's helpless at liberating the thoughts I'm no longer thinking. For the better part of the next few desperate, panic-stricken hours, I flick the restless wrist guiding my medium-point Bic, Hoping it will yet set ablaze the decaying forest of my mind, One more time, before nothing remains of my creativity And all the thoughts that I think sink below time's soft duff, loam, Seek their natural level, beneath Mother Earth's muskeg. This rain-drenched evening, when all my logs have gotten sodden, I sit, cross-legged, around my sputtering, spitting campfire, Praying my ideas will survive death, Revive at the end of my pen's point, if my soul transcends oblivion.
10/25/12
|
|||
|
|||
