Monday, 18 April 2011

18/30*

*line-by-line collaboration with fellow NaPoet (she lives here)

The light hums and flickers, and moths dart around it.
This is the scenery of dull, yellow-lit poems. There is no
Feeling of urgency, no new lines waiting to be discovered,
only the pens with their crossed arms, and the occasional
Obliging eraser, saying if you write, i will efface, because it is the reason for my being.
The books shuffle and straighten their backs, there is a hushed
whisper of promised endings and moments when sticky fingers turned eagerly
expose little exchanges and quiet hopes. But for now they sleep.

There seems a deep silence over the world, oppressive, or is it
just the cool, light cloak of reason, coaxing "There is no need for your
endless effort to push words out of your mind, they will come
in half-dreams as little seedlings and unfurl in cursive gardens and
move through you onto the paper if only you give them time, time."

And still the light flickers, the moths dart--the only company for the midnight poet
Who still sits looking away from the world of paper, around into air, and desperately
wringing the questions like sponges, offering his heart on a platter for the muses
And finally, finally, the words begin to come, and a smile accompanies a lift of the pen--

Once upon a time.

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