Not for contest nor coin, ego
nor lesson. As with the lie of
white noise, I sift my yesterdays
for even pellicle of voice, dredge
diligent, shake the pan for yellow
in sliding grit. Swish, swish.
The river has places to go. I sit
too long, too long I stare at Egret
in the Bur-Reed, elegant.
The grey bird becomes a forest,
lengthened, twisted, shaded.
Forest, mountain. Mountain, continent.
Note: Just a musing over my past writes. I was suffering a most severe writer’s block. Poetry had deserted me so long that even my own pen seemed unfamiliar. Just tried to dip my toe; brave the shock.
For some reason the line about the river having places to go grabbed at me in the right way. Sometimes this happens when I’m reading, and one line or sentence follow sme around all day.
I’ve been picturing it heading to the sea, then evaporating under the sun, falling again as rain, and then finding another unfamiliar route to the sea. Sometimes pausing in a lake or pond, but always, eventually, moving on.
Talking of moving on and ‘writer’s block’, here’s a challenge for you if you care to pick it it up.
Write a poem starting with these two lines, the first of which is your own words
Even my own pen seemed unfamiliar, sitting cold and reluctant in my fingers.
It’s certainly an elegant poem, Sharon.
If that was written without the aid of your muse we’re going to be absolutely blown away when she returns.
Only crit for me was the last line, maybe
‘lost in the tangled branches’
or
‘lost in a tangle of branches’
Anywho, a lovely poem.
I would like to add my voice to the praises that came before. A sure-footed poem with some lovely images and sounds. I also was particularily by the river and its journey. Lovely sense of nature