Spilled Ink

To sit on the veranda and wade through 

the dying light at day’s end: to write

as if life was nothing more than a carcass 

waiting to be skinned, pegged out, and left 

to dry overnight. I have heard this 

is how it is done, though I have 

my doubts, cannot conceive of lines 

being jigged, cast into the roiling seethe 

of a heart’s yearning, that does not require 

wrestling the succubus to the draw of dawn. 

Time has no time, no season

free from accounting. Every debt, 

each ache however unintentional,

needs to be settled. Love or 

Hate, in war or under flag 

of entente, are simply symptoms 

of our intent, a will to cleave 

through the tempestuous swash.

 

So, while I am mindful, tailoring words

to the forecast, the hint of tears, 

always a probability -- the poet’s 

warning to inevitability of eyes 

awaking to an alternate interpretation --

that the ink I chose to spill 

may well be indelible once 

I’ve blotted the pages … 

I know of no other way other than 

to wade through the dying light to day’s end.

Ken e Bujold

Reviews

[Lisasview]

Good morning Ken,
It has been quite awhile since I have read any of your work or anyone else's for that matter... Life got in the way.
There appear to be several ways to interpret your poem.
Regret ~ remorse seem to highlight your meaning ...
These lines seem to tell it all...
As we age life takes on another meaning...
I know of no other way other than
to wade through the dying light to day’s end.
Enjoyed the read dearest Ken,
Lisa, still in Spain

[Akinlolu]

"inevitability of eyes
awaking to an alternate interpretation --
that the ink I chose to spill
may well be indelible once
I’ve blotted the pages … "
The average poet doesn't spill blood but he spills plenty of ink(so to say).
Your closing lines bring to the fore the danger of a poet being misunderstood and of his work being misinterpreted. The fact that the ink may become indelible once it blots the pages is an indirect call to write responsibly. Our words can make or break not only the reader but the writer as well. In an age dominated by the social media, I've discovered that the internet doesn't forget. Neither does it ever forgive. Yeah, even after the writer's view might have changed, his written words from the past can continue to haunt him till his dying day. A thought provoking write.
Akinlolu

[Ken e Bujold]

And a thought-provoking review. thank you Akinlou. Your perspective is a very interesting one. While not my intent it rings quite true on contemplation. Which makes me quite happy. I now have a sense that this poem works on other levels, and speaks to all ages. Your youthful take of the internet and writing responsibly is fresh. For the old man who wrote it, at the time of its birth, was more of a glancing back at how one can either be consumed by regrets and what if's or just plough on to the very end of the dying light.

Ken

[Akinlolu]

Wow. It does speak so clearly to me. I'm glad I read this today. Thank you for writing it.

[JessyJacob]

Hi dear Ken bro, I just dont want to miss the band which was sent to him dear brother hope he received it and got tied the rakhi, I wish you all happy rakshabhandan belated just in case you received it today my hubby would have definitely send it to him. With warm wishes, you are younger to me don’t worry too much handsome bro, I will do everything for him for his safety and happiness.

[FGFRANKLIN]

No use crying over spilled ink, says I, especially when it's from a pen as talented as yours. There's always this settling of affairs going on in the world. It seems our labors often separate us from the things and people we love. I'm reminded of the Harry Chapin song, Cats In The Cradle or Time In A Bottle by Jim Croce. Can we make time? No. But maybe we can find ways to better manage our "lives" with our "life". I enjoyed the read, as always. F.

[Betty Hermelee]

Time here seems to be a constant, but we are not; we shall perish, not knowing when, yet we hope what we write will live on long after our demise….indelible…..we all expect death to come as a dying light…..and as we get weaker, it becomes blots on a page…..but our words are still there, immortal we can surely say….
My interpretation dear friend…..
Warmly
B.

[John the Baptist]

Hints of mortality both open and close this one, so we must conclude it is a major theme of the poem. Again, in stanza two, the importance of time, or the lack of it, stands out. As much of life that can be recorded, must be. Stanza three seems to voice a concern at being misunderstood by others, that he will have no way to alter what he has written after he is gone. At the end, though, he seems reconciled to doing his best work while he still can. It's all any of us can do.

[Ken e Bujold]

thanks for the extremely well considered criticism of the work John

[willweb]

Sometimes that is all we can do while we are in the midst of satisfying this hobby? habit? addiction? need? oh hell...writing poetry. It appears, it is read it is always (as long as we don't hit delete)

[Vol]

Ken,
It is not surprising this poem has so many reviews. I've mentioned in other reviews that the Navajo greeting and farewell is a word that translates to "walk in beauty." Thank you sir for this lovely stroll to go with my coffee... This was a truly rewarding read. All we need to do now is find a way for the public to see what they are missing.

[Ken e Bujold]

thanks vol. yes to walk in the beauty is an apt way of looking at this.

[Ken Simm.]

The black dog has visited here also and left his graffiti strewn across my walls. This is stunning.

[Ken e Bujold]

Thanks Ken. Glad you enjoyed the work

[Vol]

Ken... great review...
Vol

[Chris Shaw]

I am reminded here that the ink we spill upon the page, may well be interpreted in a different way from what was intended. I am ok with that. Being read is the most important factor in my humble opinion. I find no ink blots with your writing, you my friend always leave in your wake, words that remain on the mind.

Chris

[Ken e Bujold]

thanks for the kind words Chris.