When a poem is done
My soul is purged,
The torment released,
In nouns and verbs.
I sift the prison of my soul
And the words run out
My bitter toil.
For a while
There is some relief
My soul is cleansed,
My thoughts deceased;
But who would have thought
Would have had the impression
That in my tiny skull
Marched such a precession?
Of opinions inked
Of distinction made
Of memories linked,
A vast parade.
A ceaseless flow
Of subtle notes
Where do they go?
Once they're unyoked.
Out into the wide world
Of Padip and Elaine
Strangers I'd love to meet
On a continental train.
Wonderful poem, your description of the coming of a poem is great. 10/10
Wonderful poem, your description of the coming of a poem is great. 10/10
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Oh what a grand parade that would be, to have your poems on their own float... and you the parade marshal. I believe I would be in awe of you, and your every word, should I meet you in person. What a wonderful poem David! xo
I emphatically agree Lainey. I finally found a way to you and David and Myke. I have missed the days sorely of our riffs and our love affair with poetry. Nothing since has felt as right or as therapeutic. Love you to the moon~Always~Laurel