Sunday, October 21, 2007

The Immortal Writ

When I have no inspiration
And I can find no calibration
For stylus, writ and imagination

Still I write.

This is, for me, a forced conscription
It’s who I am. It’s my conviction

Still I write

So still I write, I’m writing still
Though prose is sick; and poetry ill,
Wit is ailing, plot is failing

Still I write.

Perhaps I should lay down me pen
And never take it up again.
Roll it in a winding-sheet;
Prepare a spot in the mossy peat.

Then with dignity, I can mourn my loss
By a gargoyle-stone sarcophagus.


Wipe your tears, unbend your knees
I only wrote this poem to tease.
And you should perhaps take extra measure
To wipe away that look of pleasure…

Still I’ll write!


susan said...

Love it!

Joy Des Jardins said...

And thank God you do! I love what you create...and I love this piece.

Pauline said...

What? Still writing?

(I hope so! This is very clever.)

Roberta S said...

Thanks gals. It's really gratifying (and humbling) to have a wee support group.