When a poem
comes into the world
line by line, unaware
of what it will become,
when words appear by magic on the page
only to feel their way towards another line,
it's obvious they're blind -
but getting there.
And then the final mystery - how can it be?
Between the lines
synapses grow -
the poem's own -
allowing metaphors and images to flow
like current through a grid,
to form allusions and
illuminate each other.
And then we send it out into the world.
Still blind and feeling its way forward,
of what is there or not, but now
of who will love and who cold-shoulder it,
to gain experience and grow
in true significance
in the world's ways.
This is my submission to http://poetryjaam.blogspot.co.uk/ (Poetry Jam)'s The Blind Leading the Blind prompt for this week.
The moon petals the sea. Rose petals the sea. Stone sea. Stone petals. Rose petals of stone. Stone rising before me. Sea moves. How moves...
Hello everyone who follows David King (My Father). On behalf of the family this post is to let you know that Dad sadly passed away, peacefu...
It all depends, you see, how you go about it. And that I cannot tell you, for that will be dictated by you and by you knowing your friends...
This post has in a sense been handed to me by two or three responses to my post On not getting it. In the course of discussing how a reade...
than I was when I was far more visible than I am now. Furthermore, numerous kind -- and tactful -- fellow bloggers have given me opportunit...