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Literature Text
The poet,
Sits down,
To his poem.
The paper,
Is blank,
Because his mind,
Is blank.
He taps,
His pencil.
Slowly he gnaws,
At the eraser.
He jots down words,
He scribbles,
His thoughts.
He stops,
The writing stops.
He gets up,
He paces.
His pacing,
Is startlingly similar to,
The rhythm,
Of his poem.
He stops,
He writes,
He paces.
He looks,
At the poem.
It looks,
Back at him,
He huffs.
Taken aback,
By its challenge.
Not scared,
He does this,
All the time.
He grabs,
His thesaurus.
He mumbles,
To himself,
Almost manically,
In artistic fits.
Wrong,
Wrong,
Wrong,
Right!
He jots it down.
No, he says.
No, wrong again,
He erases,
He huffs,
He rambles.
His head,
Bent over,
His paper.
He sighs,
About,
To admit,
Defeat-
But wait!
He knows,
He’s found,
What he,
Was looking for.
He writes,
He writes faster.
Barely able,
To keep,
His words readable.
He tries,
To keep up,
With his,
Flowing mind.
He writes,
He still writes.
His hand,
And pencil,
Melt into,
The words.
The flesh,
Has fallen away,
The words,
Are the only,
Thing left.
And the pencil,
Blends in,
With the paper.
His heart,
Beats out,
The rhythm.
Nothing,
Like the slow,
Ba-dum,
Ba-dum,
Of normal hearts.
His mind,
Molds into,
The poem,
And singly,
The poem.
Nothing,
But the poem.
His imagination,
Has grown into,
This poem.
Nothing else,
Nothing crowds,
His overactive,
Imagination.
All other,
Scenarios,
Take the back seat.
His eyes,
Slowly wrestle,
With what,
He wants,
With what,
He sees.
They are no longer,
His eyes,
Now they
Criticize,
They’re readers’ eyes.
His life,
Takes on,
New meaning.
The meaning of,
The poem.
His world,
His world,
Gives the meaning,
To,
The poem.
It’s still going,
It’s still going.
His wife walks in,
She chats away,
He barely hears her,
The poem barely hears her.
He tries to speak,
Tries to reply.
He sounds so primitive,
Disjointed,
Retarded,
An animal.
Poems,
Can’t speak.
Nor can they hear.
They just are.
Later,
Hours later,
He’s done,
He’s finished,
He’s won,
He’s triumphed,
He thinks.
He sits,
Still as the paper,
Before him.
With just as much,
Meaning,
And just as much,
Life.
The poem,
Is one,
With him,
Or is he,
One with,
The poem?
Sits down,
To his poem.
The paper,
Is blank,
Because his mind,
Is blank.
He taps,
His pencil.
Slowly he gnaws,
At the eraser.
He jots down words,
He scribbles,
His thoughts.
He stops,
The writing stops.
He gets up,
He paces.
His pacing,
Is startlingly similar to,
The rhythm,
Of his poem.
He stops,
He writes,
He paces.
He looks,
At the poem.
It looks,
Back at him,
He huffs.
Taken aback,
By its challenge.
Not scared,
He does this,
All the time.
He grabs,
His thesaurus.
He mumbles,
To himself,
Almost manically,
In artistic fits.
Wrong,
Wrong,
Wrong,
Right!
He jots it down.
No, he says.
No, wrong again,
He erases,
He huffs,
He rambles.
His head,
Bent over,
His paper.
He sighs,
About,
To admit,
Defeat-
But wait!
He knows,
He’s found,
What he,
Was looking for.
He writes,
He writes faster.
Barely able,
To keep,
His words readable.
He tries,
To keep up,
With his,
Flowing mind.
He writes,
He still writes.
His hand,
And pencil,
Melt into,
The words.
The flesh,
Has fallen away,
The words,
Are the only,
Thing left.
And the pencil,
Blends in,
With the paper.
His heart,
Beats out,
The rhythm.
Nothing,
Like the slow,
Ba-dum,
Ba-dum,
Of normal hearts.
His mind,
Molds into,
The poem,
And singly,
The poem.
Nothing,
But the poem.
His imagination,
Has grown into,
This poem.
Nothing else,
Nothing crowds,
His overactive,
Imagination.
All other,
Scenarios,
Take the back seat.
His eyes,
Slowly wrestle,
With what,
He wants,
With what,
He sees.
They are no longer,
His eyes,
Now they
Criticize,
They’re readers’ eyes.
His life,
Takes on,
New meaning.
The meaning of,
The poem.
His world,
His world,
Gives the meaning,
To,
The poem.
It’s still going,
It’s still going.
His wife walks in,
She chats away,
He barely hears her,
The poem barely hears her.
He tries to speak,
Tries to reply.
He sounds so primitive,
Disjointed,
Retarded,
An animal.
Poems,
Can’t speak.
Nor can they hear.
They just are.
Later,
Hours later,
He’s done,
He’s finished,
He’s won,
He’s triumphed,
He thinks.
He sits,
Still as the paper,
Before him.
With just as much,
Meaning,
And just as much,
Life.
The poem,
Is one,
With him,
Or is he,
One with,
The poem?
Suggested Collections
This is that poem for english class which I believe I mentioned somewhere in arg, but maybe not.
well we had to write, and I quote: a poem describing a worker becomign a part, a tool, or a product of his or her work.
well, he becomes his work... so isn't that close enough? ah well, playing it safe gets you no where. risks give you experience.
Maybe this is supposed to be spoken word. Maybe not.
i keep getting this random image of a guy when I read it, this poet dude, and sometimes it's edgar a. poe. lol, yes that's kinda funny.
well we had to write, and I quote: a poem describing a worker becomign a part, a tool, or a product of his or her work.
well, he becomes his work... so isn't that close enough? ah well, playing it safe gets you no where. risks give you experience.
Maybe this is supposed to be spoken word. Maybe not.
i keep getting this random image of a guy when I read it, this poet dude, and sometimes it's edgar a. poe. lol, yes that's kinda funny.
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Comments11
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I liked this poem. You've captured the zen of writing perfectly. I call it Zen when I'm so wrapped up in creating art (whether words or visual) that I can be literally lost to everything for hours. I only have one poem up on the site though. I'm working on a chapbook. I just put that one out here to see what people would think.
Keep up the good work.
Blessings,
Laurie G
Keep up the good work.
Blessings,
Laurie G