Dear Word Lover (corrected)

It is I who must
For my tardy
I never know
Quite what to say
Or how to take
Sometimes no words
That I can make

I might not follow
As you lead
Except on pages
Where we read
In truth it may stay
In my head
A foolish fiction
Falling dead

So dumb and blind
Like poets, I
Create connections
‘Cross the sky
Where many waves
Of sound and light
From dreamers weave
Both left and right

No way to tell
Beginning, end
Or lie from truth
Or fierce from friend
Perhaps it’s all
Or both
Or none
In instant same
And still no one

So what to make
Create from this
I do not know
I will not wish
Except I give
A writing hand
That alone
Is all I can
And when all falls
Is what must stand



Young Woman Writing by Pierre Bonnard

Originally a series of micropoems, a conversation with myself, the reader, the writer. Perhaps I will post to Twitter as such.

Re-posted because in the last instant before publishing, the form suddenly seemed to rearrange itself in an intolerable way.

~ by April on April 12, 2014.

3 Responses to “Dear Word Lover (corrected)”

  1. A delightful and fascinating conversation.
    (and yes, that technical thing has happened to me before too)

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