The air was still,
The house, the city, the night.
Everything seemed totally still,
With no movement in sight.
Even his heart for once was still,
Mimicking the silence of his quill,
Until he felt a faint murmur,
A sudden rustle of leaves,
That disturbed the stillness.
In his mind an idea taking shape,
A poem making ready to escape,
Under the eaves, amid the cobwebs,
Word upon blessed word,
Until meaning took shape
That wanted to be heard.
The words came as beats
That became a pounding throb,
Bursting the heart walls
With the sound of a sob.
The silence was awful,
The poet bent and watchful,
Scribbling most thoughtful.
Then the air was still again,
Again everything seemed still.
The poet fell into a swoon,
But the poem travelled on,
Across the face of the moon.
A good rendition of how a poem can form in the stillness of the night and how, even with concentration, the hypnotic moon can put the poet to sleep just as the poem escapes his mind. Sleep well and ride dreams on moon beams.
Who cares where his face was? It was entering the everlasting swoon of words which were better than before because of being written. Where before the words were a jumble of nonsensical nomads until he retrieved them and put them in order and there, there they thrived . . .
I just wonder, when the poet falls into a swoon, does he do it his face down or upwards. . . and when the poem travels on across the moon's soundless screaming face, does it move on the back of it? anyway, how can we track it from such the faraway? . . ;)) just kidding. . . in a word, a nicely telling story of what is before and after the realization by silence. Cheers, alex
Your poem contains beautiful imagery in describing the silence from which a thought worthy of writing down emerges for the poet. Silence can be discouraging or encouraging. The sound of an idea rustling is the most gratifying of all.
Inspirational poetry, written from the heart and soul. Verses that are well-suited for reading on a rainy day and that are guaranteed to bring a smile to your face.
Still Living on my Feet is the follow up to Tichaona Chinyelu’s first book, In the Whirlwind, which was rooted in a sense of hard-hitting revolutionary black love. However, in this sophomore effort, Tichaona brings the revolutionary essence from deep
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Ron