03 August, 2015

Poetess

Oftentimes, I open a blank MS Word document

or would seldom bring out a paper and pen

and stare, for minutes, or hours,

Constantly putting it aside and then opening it again

Be it the quiet of the night or the heat of the day

I answer the call whenever it comes to me

But seldom, it does so happen,

that the thoughts in my mind refuse to take shape

I’m unable to write a single letter

or I keep cancelling what I wrote, in pursuit of better words

But none come, and I wonder

did I lose the art I thought I was born with

My one gift that I neither won nor earned

but was simply bestowed upon my breaths

And that scares me, for a moment though

Because I once the words come and pass through me onto parch’

I realize I was never the writer all along

The words simply passed through me, perhaps in search of an empty soul

that wouldn’t dare to soil them, and would put them to paper pure

The writer was someone else, someone pious and pure

For it wasn’t in me to have such thoughts and words

The poetess was beautiful, unworldly, and immortal

I was but a mere mortal, scum unworthy

The words written were her doing, not mine

And on days when I couldn’t write, she was the one who had failed

Or perhaps chose not to caress me that night

Perhaps my soul wasn’t pure that night

But once she calls, it was impossible to let her be

And the guilt would kill me if I ever did ignore her,

tearing me apart, limb for limb

ripping out my heart, clutching my throat

wrestling me, till I had tears in my eyes and found respite in dreams alone

The Poetess wrote, and I found joy in her victories

And danced with her, for twas the only joy I had ever known

 

No mere mortal she is, but a Goddess

for she fires up the spirit

she bursts a sad rotting soul into embers of creativity

The mere brush of her hair makes a lethargic man sit up

The ashes of her doing lighten up the eyes of the deadest of people

Who praise, chant, and worship

They wish to cherish the artist, such are the customs of the world today

But in essence, the artist is I, the wielder of a pen for a flickering moment

The source is much greater, larger, grander

And in the afterglow of that spirit my soul lingers, gathering words of praise

Yet, the man receiving the praise was not the one who earned it

To the poetess goes all my glory, and from her comes more

For I will not be a poet, when I’m not writing, I’m one in this moment alone

The moment that cloaks and crafts itself upon me

And absorbs me into its own time and space

into an environment, not unlike one being created by my own words

I let lose, and flow, entering into the heavenly world

The fiery world, the calm, the anger, the sadness, the joy

the screams, the lights, the dark, and the agony

of the moment when I feel a lump in my throat and take my pen

I earn a moment of oneness with her, at-one-ment

I become, the Poetess