I dipped it in, down into the dark well, where thoughts come from and feelings hide
In inky depths it came near to drowning, waiting for me to direct it’s movements
Guiding it carefully to paper, I sought to make my mark, but, tragedies did occur
Splotches splotched, runnings ran, smears smeared, and white paper tarnished
Nib pulled, feather bent, the ink ran out, bottle tipped over, and all seemed lost
Never again will the blank page be waiting, in innocent glory, for the inky arts
The same ink cannot be gathered, either, nor the nib fixed, but must be replaced
Yet, in the lines on the page, between smears and splotches, a few curves emerge
I see traces of womanhood, unplanned, but beautiful, ready to come alive on page
So, off I must go, to fetch that ink – self willed, headstrong ink – and take my cues
No longer trying to shape the destiny of ink, pen, or paper, but following their leads
Dipping when needed, scratching when allowed, and working with but not against
There was a pen
Actually, this is me trying to write something that may help me remember something else. You see, after my daughter had run away, I was laying in bed, quite ill, and I had a sort of half dream while writing a poem in my head.
It was all about her, the sorrows of her life, my wanting to help her, but it was comparing her to pen and ink in some way.
It was one of those sort of poems that was so brilliant, sheer genius .. the sort of thing you feel humbled to be allowed to participate in; yet impossible to remember, once fully awake.
This is not the stuff of genuis, here, but it does definitely remind me of what I lost.
Riyllan, 4 months ago
:-) Iike this very much
Arletta in reply to Riyllan’s comment, 4 months ago
Thank you!