In Celebration of National Poetry Month (April)
I enjoy writing poetry, though I am little more than a novitiate of the poetic craft, a tyro in training. Why poetry? I am drawn to the mystery and magic of words, and the rhythm and rhyme of verse and form. Perhaps it’s the folk song lyricist in me, but meter, beat, assonance, alliteration, rhyme, and all the wordcraft of classic poetry resonates in my spirit. So when I write poetry, that’s how it usually comes out—as structured and metered word-song. My poem below is like that, and yet there is also a freedom, flow, and tension, suggesting the inner conflict and anxiety of writing to form, and the point-counterpoint of poetically crafting a concept. I know I will never be a “working” poet, nor do I want to be. But I will always be working at poetry, simply because of the joy of wording.
INK
Ink, I think, makes permanent
the fleeting thought, the not yet sure
the awkward word still insecure
the raw emotion--captured, still
naked, held against its will
Ink, I think, is resolute
Indelible, unyielding, firm
but I am not, I dodge and squirm
and hide from thoughts I ought to face
smudge the lines, line out, erase
and pencil in with tepid lead
the limpid grays that can’t be read
so words can run if given leave
and thoughts demur, if they please
Ink, I think, does not forgive
so I resist, I feint, recant
and only then with trembling hand
take up the pen to flay my soul
to make the marks so sure, so cold
so fixed and fast, so resolute
so permanent, no substitute
imprisoned in pigmented lines
of shiny black, forever mine
no rued regrets, no half a heart
no looking back, no second starts
the line is drawn, the die is cast
the deed is done, the moment passed
no changes now the deal is sealed
no mincing words, what is revealed
is cast upon the writing wind
the ink is dry ... it is the end
Resigned to fate with bated sigh
the mighty pen I cast aside
but then a thought, a word, a grin
and hastily I pencil in
and once again
of ink
I think
(c) 2014 Clay Clarkson