Progeny of the Page
A poem that doesn’t fully understand itself — and that’s the point.
A poem must bring itself into existence. It relies totally on the ‘midwife’ poet to help it arrive safely. My poem below is one of those progeny I’m not sure what to make of. It has a lot to say. Maybe it hasn’t yet found its voice. Which is, in fact, the meaning of the poem - I think!
I also went for walk with Kitty (the whippet) and my camera. The view below was taken from the walk which begins just behind the cottage.
Fibered Noise
The ease at which this fibered noise
clings to the page,
astounds me.
You’d think some knitting would begin,
that some missed words
might just fall from the polyphony
of genius marching across my bookshelf,
and knit themselves into a ball-point pen-
warmer for my unfeeling ink.
There’s so much told to be
unspun, to be
re-
produced,
planted in the fibered field of lines I have
before me. I feel queasy at the thought. I feel
like a pilgrim on a long journey
to the kitchen, where freshly-baked scones
and a jar of jam,
might just find a way of saying
the very whatever it is I haven’t yet said.