“Why write the book?”


“Why write the book?”

“Why write the book?” again she asks. Why resign or redesign
The box? Had she created how she spells
Herself, she might not raise the spectre of ephemera across the line
With all the others―no one here more the guest than she, herself―
Addressing: Who? or What? What for?
“Who was it did this thing?” she asks
As Aristotle turns another page for her she knows―a turn
Of phrase, all fine philosophy aside―and she’ll negotiate the door
That is not there or sit right down where she is. She’ll read or write or worse,
She’ll believe and leave another Orpheus on the floor. She’ll break
Her water, claim it’s all so sudden much too late
To ponder what it is she says within a second second verse,
“But, where’s the point of vanishing, and what the cue to reappear?”
She’s here, if nothing else with nothing less and nothing more to fear.

…painting by Valerie Hardy…


2 responses to ““Why write the book?”

  1. Writing, books, poems, whatever, often seems like sticking a screwdriver in the electrical socket of tomorrow. Ignorant of the laws of metaphysical electricity— we take our chances. Should we even dare? Can we even truly refuse? Do the angels watch silently behind the veil and snicker (benevolently)? Pondering such things, I sometimes scratch my head and hear the jingle of bells… from my jester’s cap. ‘Tis in the brevity of life that I claim: Sanctuary…. Sanctuary…. Sanctuary!!!

  2. Lovey comment, Shaun

    All I can add is, you have spoken the soul of the creative writer, John

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