“The Well Is Dry”

“The Well Is Dry”

The well is dry, the residue of ink explores
The walls of silence, crystalline in isolation from the roaring pen.
Surfaces have all been cleaned; shelves are empty now, and when
The hour dies, the index finger traces symbols, beads of inspiration born
Of ingots grown from sediment as saline prints–fingers
Soil the complaisant innocence of a parchment that never rests;
Rich papyrus–stretch marks in the margin–attests
That I am ever drowned in possibilities where wonder always lingers.
Surely, then, there is no pause to speak of in the daily common look
Through possibilities, the slumbering leaves of future chapters,
What exists and for the moment merely cages what’s been captured
Reveals nothing to or from me, yes! but for another time, another book.
My pen stands ready to offend not so much as to enrage
Itself. Not all that is and every crimson serif finds the page.

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7 responses to ““The Well Is Dry”

  1. Mega-Whoot !!!

    The quote of the tradition from the Báb roars in my heart again: “Treasures lie hidden beneath the throne of God; the key to those treasures is the tongue of poets.”

  2. Alexander:
    I had never heard of the Holy Words you mentioned in your note. Naturally, I began immediately to find them, and, there they were. From my heart to yours, I thank you for pointing to these words. They resemble the sun that is no need of praise from me. Light simply is what it is and it occurs to me that anyone who entertains the idea of “doing” something with the light forgets that even if destroyed, in fact the light becomes matter. Matter destroyed in turn when confronted becomes light. I have always suspected that all qualities and attributes, all powers and virtues, anything and everything of worth is but a shadow of His presence in this and every existence. In this world go no further than He allows no matter what the outward signs of ascendency place the existence and exigencies of this life above the Person and purpose of His Manifestation, never mind, God, Himself. It is an ancient promise, the Covenant, Itself; it has always triumphed and predates civilisation, itself. My thanks for sending me these precious words. Apparently, even the poet has no idea what whatever he writes in fact means. Some might feel this to be a somewhat frightening thought, but then which is more frightening, that what the poet writes he, himself, cannot understand or that what he writes happens to be the truth?

  3. “…which is more frightening, that what the poet writes he, himself, cannot understand or that what he writes happens to be the truth?”

    I’m familiar with the first option and careful to not claim the second 🙂

  4. My God this is beautiful – I’m left with thoughts refusing to come forward.

  5. the pen being the unwilling tool, used by the halting hand, moved by thoughts not yet released by ones staggering imagination…
    Wonderful poetry which just seems to jump from the page, to enter your mind and take hold of your senses…xx

  6. I have been doubly honoured by your comments and once again, from my heart to yours, I want you to know that your comments have been appreciated, truly.

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