The Language Pool (Part 2)

... part 2 of poems for my Muse...

THE LANGUAGE POOL

*** Part 2 of my tribute to my muse***

     “I’ll follow you into shadow,

       I’ll follow you into the forest,

       I’ll drink with you from the language pool...”

            ~~anonymous artist

****

From a distance

you can hardly see it,

just a slight widening of the green,

and the undergrowth is slightly worn.

But as you near,

and if the sunlight hits it just right,

you can glimpse the pathway.

Nearby is an old stone bench.

Barely visible, you can still see the ancient writing

carved into the stone.

I can only guess at its origins,

perhaps words from some distant island.

I touch their outline and feel fear;

a warning perhaps,

danger! 

Ancient words, telling of mystery

and the punishment for daring 

to walk the path now better seen and 

even more enticing. 

****

I sit on the bench

waiting,

awaiting your return. 

I saw you enter the path as I was walking in the park.

It looked like in your hands

there were books or maybe note pads.

You didn’t appear to be frightened

and your step was steady, 

with purpose.

Yet I couldn’t help but feel unease,

like something on the other side of this doorway

could, with great humor and glee,

suck out your very soul.

And I was determined to ask you about this path

what was at its end,

and why you went there.

I was thinking

I too might venture inside, 

meet whatever fate lived there.

****

Isn’t it funny how you have no control on events;

how even while playing a structured song

the guitar moves your fingers around unannounced,

spontaneous jamming and tripping tones.

It’s what defines the essence of jazz and blues.

I must have been playing some wildly composed blues

cause I found myself following you into the forest,

into the mystery of the ancient words.

As I moved further inside

strangely exotic flowers,

off shaded reds, yellows, blues

mixed with oddly shaped greens and browns

wafting me with their jungle and musky scents.

It was almost as if it was too colorful,

too alive,

too sensual, almost deadly, 

as if these flowers had an appetite.

And the trees

the trees were really strange.

I could have sworn I saw small lines 

of what looked like blood

oozing down,

like it had just fed on something passing by.

Somehow I continued further along the path.

Maybe I thought you might need help.

But it was me who really needed the help.

Ignorance, is sometimes noble,

sometimes necessary,

sometime even a blessing;

and it was ignorance that pushed me along.

****

It was dark beneath the trees,

but ahead I could see more light.

Coming out on the clearing was a relief,

especially when I saw it

the shimmering liquid pool.

As I looked it seemed to grow

and it turned into a nice sized lake.

You could see sail boats in the distance

and there was a calmness about looking at the water,

as if it were calling to you, 

like calling you back to your mother’s womb.

Nothing, ever could hurt you while you were near the water.

What is this place? 

How can this exist? 

I’ve walked around this park,

there was never a lake.

As I looked into the water, 

I could see words and stories,

poems go floating by.

If you had a net you could scoop them up,

put them in a book,

thrill the world with art.

It was then I saw you

sitting on a wall

feet dangling into the lake

circles of ideas made ripples

like a skimming stone

thrown to see how far it could disturb the universe.

You were lost in the moment

and laughing like a school girl,

like a woman, who was holding up her first born.

And as you giggled, 

I could see you were either drawing or writing

something into your pads. 

But this story isn’t about you exactly.

More, its about what it means to find this pool;

what it costs for you to come here.

Its about the dangers of art, of the toll it takes

and the things that follow you when you leave.

The things that go bump in the night;

that awaken you drenched in sweat

as though you were running away

from ugly, horrid blood soaked teeth

that would do more than just rip you apart.

It would hold you in its stinking, rancid breath

and make you look into the ghastly absurdities of death

for all eternity. 

And there, at the edge of the forest

I saw it.

Huge red eyes, 

a gapping hole with a zillion sharpened teeth.

I had to look away 

or it would have pulled me into that hole.

But what scared me more,

made my bones shiver,

was it was looking at you with those red, hungry eyes.

I tried to yell, to warn you.

I tried to move, to stand guard while you giggled 

and played with your pads;

but neither of these things I could do.

Just watch,

watch this ageless creature stare and drool

It was then I realized just what it cost

to visit the language pool

to drink from its clear waters

to go fishing for words,

synonyms and metaphors,

limericks and odes

sonnets of love.

For the chance of creating 

for creativity and beauty; 

for aesthetics and awe;

all it cost was possibly your soul.

****

Not sure how long it was 

that I stood, helpless.

But I do remember walking to the lake,

diving in

tasting the sweet cool water

and realizing that

for a single haiku,

I would take my chances 

to come to the language pool. 

I think in the end it was you

who guided me to safety.

I can still feel the touch of your 

gentle woman’s hands on my face.

It was better than any kiss I had ever known.

I can still smell your scent,

a mix of jungle, coconut and the sweetness of spring rain.

I remember being conscious,

filled with so many question, 

as I sat again on the ancient stone bench.

And I vowed that I would return,

look for you, 

ask the most important question of all:

was okay to venture into the forest with you.

But until then, I know I will return

and once again swim in the waters of this lake,

imaging what it would be like

writing for you,

being with you.

I think it would be dangerous. 

But what in life worthwhile isn’t?

(To be continued as the creature will seek revenge for the words and art taken)

~~redzone 6.21.08 (edited 9.23.14

 

Author's Note

..ever wonder where the words came from... now you know, and just how dangerous it is to write...
thanks for reading...

Reviews

[Briana O'Connor]

Well holy crap there batman. This is a very interesting, scary, beautiful and many other adjectives...write. There was a lot going on and lot of depth in this. It read more like a story than a poem, but this was a very unique and twisted tale. I loved it. Well done.