Idea: The Writer’s War
The idea seizes.
I fly to pen
These whispers burning deep within,
To scribe these thoughts of dawn-like fire
(That I can never fully hear,
Yet feel them like a deep-lodged spear)
Oh, the fascination they inspire!
Each contour: untouched mystery,
In this idea given to me.
The daylight wanes, spills into night.
Brown shadows jig with lantern light . . .
And still I war. I watch in awe
As all my tangled mind unfolds.
With majesty, confusion molds
To figures sunlight never saw-
Yet they must be more real than sight.
They love and laugh and cry–and fight.
I strive to capture them, but they
With steely brows have seized their way.
Careening wild inside my mind,
They tease my hands, unearth fool’s gold.
I hunt them, yet their trails unfold
A thousand roads . . . I lag behind,
Groping for just one memory
Of all their force and dignity.
The dark wanes, spills to morning light.
I, weary-eyed, still grapple spite,
Still pound these shadows to frail reprise
Of what they were when they were born;
And all that I attempt, I scorn
Into crumpled balls of compromise,
Of rambling words and hackneyed might–
Oh, when shall I begin to write?
By Mary Faustina