Place (The) Of Writing Poem by Tom Courtney

I have journeyed to a place
From which I find there’s no escape
The essence of my arteries
Tells me my blood unlikely frees

Me from this so unlively spot
Til I have ground the perfect dot
Upon the table of the writing
Through the fuss, the fury, fighting

Just to state my meager effort
Sprout the wings a bird of feather
Grind my snout into the dirt
A grunt a huff no proper word

Can come to me in moment now
I might as well become a cow
Or moss upon a shining rock
The way I sing the way I talk

What sense of mine can I convey
But pass the feelings on the way?
Through awkward script and jotted note
The fasted form the formless bloat

The efforts I have taken measure
Distance of my pain and pleasure
Mark my spot no more than dung
Which turns to earth reborn unsung