A Colorful Cast of Characters

My first piece in a a few years. Lord knows if it's any good or not.

a poet sits at his desk
faces the clean white page
he takes the pen from the inkwell
and presses it to the page
watches the ink seep
the blot spreads through the fibers of the paper
like blood through the veins
he sits still and studies
the shapes the worlds and the lives
it creates

an astronomer
in a state of high anxiety
paces his balcony, worried
and curses all science
the microscope their algebras the scalpels
he set out once to chart the stars and the sky
he shakes his withered fist at his telescope
and wonders if he's been holding the damned thing backwards
this whole time

a pilgrim, weary
wipes the sweat from his eyes
rubs his feet
soles cracked calloused bleeding
he knew the road that called would be long
but the lantern grows dim now
and as he reclines against the stone
his tired eyes
follow the motions of a spider
weaving lazily in the branches
of the thorn tree that towers above him
and he wraps himself in rags
not much for protection against the wind

a soldier sits smoking
silent in his favorite chair
his eyes wander  
from the rifle leaning against the bookshelf

 The colonel gave the shout!
"They're over the top again, lads!"
The Maxim guns opened up
the way they had the night before,
and the night before that.
The creeping bombardment,
fire for effect
Bayonets fixed we went over,
then only the nightmare
dying men
the horses screaming panic by the artillery line
someone shouting my God, they're breaking through
blood in the moonlight
the nightmare flash-traffic scene
of guts spilled
steaming in the snow
like something out of Hemingway or Heller

to the gardening trowel
balanced precariously on the windowsill
he sees that it's snowing again

a threadbare priest
lights his candle
kneels before the sky
he wonders as to the gods
or the Goddess
and receives only a cruel smile
in reply

Reviews

[jacob erin-cilberto]

there is a war with words sometimes, the blank white page is the battlefield, and ideas clash, but only spill blood not themes...

i like the allusion to seeing the rifle...i like the part about seeing it snow again...seasons pass, words still don't come...the muse smiles defiantly...

and i like poems that allude to the pen...i remember writing poems with a pen, even before i used my old royal academy..way before everything came out from computers...
napkins full of words, with which i wiped something off my lips...

jacob

[Wordydistance]

The first stanza caught me a little off guard because of the double use of "page" as endings. I wasn't sure if this would be rhyming so it got to me more than it should. The rest was excellent though. I love the use of different characters. The two last stanzas are really marvelous. I like how it brings the whole poem together, and then ends on a bit of (what I thought of as) a sinister note.

[John Sullivan]

Aaahhhh, you caught it. I hadn't noticed the double "pages" until I went to copy and paste the thing onto the submission form. By then, it was too late to change it, at least not without tearing the whole first stanza apart, and then likely ultimately rewriting a good amount of it, which I didn't want to do at the time. I saw it myself, it was just too late. Anyways. Thank you kindly, sir. This was my first piece in a few years, I wasn't entirely sure how it would come out going in to it. Thanks for reading.

[Vishuddha]

A lovely cast of characters. Oddly enough the poet is the least accessible to me. The astronomer is a funny fellow and the world the pilgrim inhabits feels very dusty and different, accepting of all things, even weariness. The soldier brings another stark contrast, still living in his war even though he is comfortably at home. Even the priest seems humble. But, the poet ... who is he?
Meanwhile, throwing the mindscape words of the soldier's thoughts to the other side of the page is a delightful device. I knew right away I was inside his mind. A very fun read!

[John Sullivan]

Well, thank you kindly ma'am. Ah, the poet, the poet... I would have to say... In the "About Me" section of your page you write of the sort of connectivity of poetry. A poem may be yours, but it can be anothers as well by virtue of shared experience or thought. In a different, though perhaps not entirely sort of sense, the author is fundamentally connected to his characters. He creates and in a sense inhabits them. They each contain a sliver of the writer, so to speak. I would then say that to understand the characters, then, is perhaps to understand the poet...

Er, that's the best I've got. It's not much of an answer, perhaps, and I can't imagine any sort of conclusion that you hadn't already arrived at yourself. I've had the time to go through a few of your pieces, some damned insightful stuff. My thanks for reading, from a man, yet, and an insect. All my best.

[Vishuddha]

Ah, so true. The poet is you. And, why dwell on someone you know so well?
Ink like blood through the veins - well, that's pretty personal, pretty intimate. Curious that it is the ink that creates. I sometimes feel something other than me writes the words. I had not considered it might be the ink - whipped up from octopus wizard's guts. I, incidentally, love nature, live in a forest and have many insect friends. They are even more basic than lizards. Thank you for the damned insightful stuff remark.

[John Sullivan]

"Curious is the ink that creates. I sometimes feel something other than me writes the words."

That's a fine line. I know that feeling too well, and I'm sure not a few writers here would agree. Sometimes one sits there at the desk, trying to snatch those snippets of words and thoughts out of the air and chain them to the page before they float off into the margins. Sometimes they just flow out of the mind, clear and complete, and it feels a little too much like taking dictation. From what, Lord knows. An uncomfortable thing, that. Thank you for your words.

[ANTO]

This is brilliant JL - the poet creating (made me wonder if the poet creates himself ...hmm) - seeing all these characters come to life - funny in parts (the backwards looking astronomer lol) and sad in parts (the soldier and his continuing 'war' and flashback horrors) - the jaded priest.

I liked the way you introduced the flashback to the soldier part - the interruption wasnt continued as if the flashback took no time, but rather it made us realise that the time was lost - and I felt as confused as the old soldier.

I could prattle on God knows but this is a super write. classic!!
Im glad I read this.

[John Sullivan]

Your words are too kind, sir! I'd say your reading pretty much matched my intent for the thing. I'm glad the humor in the astronomers bit came across, that's how it originally read when I wrote the thing down, but I ended up starting to write a little more for his verse that ultimately changed the tone there to something a little different - a little more... plaintive. I'm glad I kept it as it is. I'm also glad the soldier's part worked for you. I wasn't sure if that one should end up its own piece or not, I was worried the formatting there might might create a bit of a dissonance with the rest of the piece... Which of course on the other hand, was sort of the idea. You'll have to forgive me, I haven't had my coffee yet, so I'm probably going to start rambling at this point. Thanks for reading! And Scout's honor, I look forward to checking out your stuff, I just won't have time to do so until this evening. I'll definitely try to throw some constructive words your way. All my best.

[ANTO]

Ramble on JL I love peeking behind the curtain of great writing - you honour me with such detail - I will hope to get you before coffee all the time now.
thank you