In a few hours from now
they’d pull down the shutters
and leave a stark street
to a poet’s imagination
as he’d grope in the dark alleys,
burnt on cigarettes
and cheap whiskey,
wondering
where in this pool of scrap
he’d find the foetus
of his once deserted poem.
But I’ve known many a poet
who in the stench of their thoughts
have lost the serendipitous joy
of constructing unsuspecting metaphors
that would cense the bosom
of their once shared love with their muses.
They stumble back now
to this scrap
of what the world was, what it could be
rummaging for their once aborted themes.
© Dan Husain
April 14, 2006
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14 comments:
oh me first...
this is morbid
and wonderful...
This and the previous poem seem to have a not uncommon theme with one another. The previous seemed to lament the loss of muse and this one searches for her...in vein? The thing I have found about the muse is if I look for her somewhere she will be sure not to be there. It is when I don't search, when I turn my eye away, there she is.
wish i had written this
he’d find the foetus
of his once deserted poem
unsullied as always.
I feel you. I'm kinda of going through the same thing... rummaging for those new pieces of inspiration and coming up with the same old. I guess as long as we keep trying... that's what counts.
Dan, excellent poem about writing a poem!!
Wow..Super as usual
"burnt on cigarettes and cheap whiskey"... without this feeling, you wouldnt know where to look for at all...
I love your poem!
what's wrong with "cense"?
cense ( P ) Pronunciation Key (sns)
tr.v. censed, cens·ing, cens·es
To perfume with incense.
To burn incense to.
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[Middle English censen, short for encensen, from encens, incense. See incense2.] From www.dictionary.com
The lines that say something to me:
But I’ve known many a poet
who in the stench of their thoughts
have lost the serendipitous joy
Depressing alright. But I am more inclined to think that it all depends on the individual. One could be languishing in such a desolated street for ideas searching for inspiration. But the secret according to me lies in the art itself. Poetry, the finished product, is inspirational enough for a poet to not lose track. Just like a story is, for a person like me. Many lie there. In those streets. In the dullness. In the foul stench. In that aura. Under those mesmerising street lights. Keep searching for it. Am sure one can come up with great ideas. :D
Nice and introspective!
You should have attended the recent bloggers meet, it was fun. :)
i m new to all this...read ur other poems too but this one left me wondering,posed questions for myself,u shook me from inside !
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