An oatmeal-wholegrain regime isn’t
working, rusks affect my hearing and
thinking – I can’t perceive anything
properly, behaviour deteriorates with
me repeating myself on my favourite
subjects instead of moving on
I don’t know if it affects my writing –
readers have a choice to leave if it
bores and not offend me, it’s only the
family who are caught in this web
of noise I make when wheat turns
me into an inconsiderate slob; as for
Sound caught on paper, representing
a voice making such an infernal noise
when allowed to escape so it must be
controlled – sweet silence is the rule –
ah, so be it, at least I can write as much
as I like, repeating myself ad infinitum...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Yes we all capture sound on paper plucking words out the silent air to make black noise on white papyrus leaves hieroglyphs of sentiment. like this poem read on many levels thanks for sharing BB: O)