Penned Again

No sleep in this pen so
it calls me again,
late in the night.
I cannot but do its
bidding as it scratches
me across this page.  No
sleep now – with me
strewn blue across white – not
quite bruised but certainly
bent into shape
of poetry.

 

I am ink.
I am lettered.
I am poem,
the page now my home
until I am virtually
transfigured and
become the
sighting of your eye, the
curving of your tongue,
an echo
in your ear.

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8 thoughts on “Penned Again

  1. dianerivers says:

    It seems your insomnia serves the rest of us well! Poetry certainly does “bend you into shape”. Another great offering ~

  2. shoreacres says:

    What a perfect way to describe self-expression: “as it scratches me across this page.” Overcoming the gap between self and words is — or should be — one of the primary goals of a writer, and yet it’s so rarely taken seriously. You clearly do.

    I like the implication in the second “stanza” that a poem isn’t complete until it’s read, spoken, and heard. Once upon a time, poetry was spoken. Even in my day, poetry was memorized and recited in school — sometimes individually, and sometimes in groups. It sticks, when it’s done that way. How else would I know “By the shores of Gitche Gumee, by the shining Big-Sea-Water, Stood the wigwam of Nokomis, daughter of the Moon, Nokomis. Dark behind it rose the forest, …” And so on. 🙂

    • agjorgenson says:

      Memorization, I guess, is out of style, but I still try to do some. I think it is good for the person on many fronts. I’m glad you caught that bit in the second stanza. A poem is looking and listening for an audience. I can understand people writing poetry for themselves, and I have a few that will remain mine for personal reasons, but in the main, I think poetry aims to be public.

  3. diannegray says:

    Lovely, Allen! 🙂

  4. I know scotch helps; whether with the sleeplessness or the scratching of pen I’m less sure.

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