Noticing the incoherent swirl of story as I sit and try to clear my mind of useless thoughts, it hurts me, but I listen, unwilling and unready yet to take another on.
Reluctantly I write them out–the usual persistent insistent voice I’ve long shut ears and mind to till it can no longer be avoided.
Black-fingered dreams held them in, the soft sounds lulling my mind into safely confining pools of shining water where only the good make passage and all others drown. Dawn’s shrieking sun bleeds through the curtains to threaten with the reality of day.
Tee-hee. It’s true, whoever I might be reading can inspire but also gravely influence my words. Augustine must be giggling in his place beside the Great and Holy One.
Perhaps it comes again around, the need to speak in poetry. Or better, keep silent just a tad bit longer.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology
Your imagery is sublime.
Thanks! The above is not my normal voice at all except when I get into dark poetic mood.
However, after six months or so of not writing a word aside from what’s put down here, I’ll take whatever I get and fly.
I think it’s good to explore different voices. Sometimes we come across one that feels like home — and is. Poetry has a way of bubbling up when least expected, sort of like falling in love.
Nice, Barbara, your simile is so appropriate in bring love and poetry together. Poetry is so very much an expression of feeling and comes to us as voice and tone, often an unfamiliar and exciting one.