The Telling Poem Poem by Sheena Blackhall

I would like to tell this poem why I write,
This paper I drag my pen along,
Like a thin shadow.
The paper listens deeply.
It has opened its face,
It has emptied its heart,
It is waiting for me to start.

So, I begin.
I ring the bell to call the slow thoughts in.
They come like monks,
Their alms hidden in pouches.
I tell the story
Short and sharp's a sigh.

I may make the paper wait.
I may torment it.
There is a time for food,
A time for fasting.
I am a wine-maker
Today the grapes are young
The wine is not for tasting.