m(ask)

i get to write with the authority of the broken

it lends authenticity to these grabbed words

 

numbed by years of neglect (i was abandoned

by the first and only pen I owned)

left to bleed poems

onto the walls of a dark cell of internment

fingering a crimson scrawl

that grew into dead spider foot scribbles

 

in an effort to un-stitch the lips of soul

i continue to bleed into that void

plying my howling art

hoping for a sign

that there is in fact a poem maker

behind the mask of the poet

 

truth is

there is

 

it’s not me though

 

some people (i’m informed) actually like this

dreamt up stream of consciousness which i do

 

not

own

 

but which flows through me

(at times)

despite me

 

i sound now and then like i know what i am about

but the reality is very different for this poet

 

i am not really here

and the cry of that disfigurment

is the vanishing point

where no light remains

but where the wound

sings itself into being

 

 

Tonight I am tending bar at the Poets pub for our Meet The Bar prompt which this evening is Ars Poetica. Please do come along to try your hand at a poem and read the wonderful community of writers we have dropping in here.

It is also of course day 12 of NaPoWriMo.

 

 

21 thoughts on “m(ask)

  1. alisonhankinson says:

    I think it is like being a scorpion, and you are what you are and you cannot escape it. You are a poet and that is that. ” left to bleed poems
    onto the walls of a dark cell of internment”- was a beautiful metaphor and I thoroughly enjoyed reading the poem. Alison.

  2. Shawna says:

    Paul, this is incredible.

    “i get to write with the authority of the broken”

    “fingering a crimson scrawl”

    “plying my howling art”

    “i am not really here
    and the cry of that disfigurment
    is the vanishing point
    where no light remains”

    Love.

  3. Grace says:

    I admire the honest poet maker in you ~ I believe we all have an inner voice, whether that is different in real life or not, it will always spill, bleed or manifest one way or the other in our words ~ Love the word smithing Paul ~

  4. kim881 says:

    I already loved the opening line, ‘i get to write with the authority of the broken’ and then I read
    ‘fingering a crimson scrawl / that grew into dead spider foot scribbles’ – now I know where you got your handle, Paul! I also love the phrase ‘in an effort to un-stitch the lips of soul’.

  5. katiemiafrederick says:

    As Far as i CaN
    And WiLL See FoR
    NoW.. PoEtrY is wHat
    BRinGs A SToNE Statue
    Captain Salt or whatEver1
    On A Sgt. Pepper’s Album
    Cover Burial Ground Back to
    LiFE WiTH A Little HelP oF A LonELy
    HeART’s CLuB BanD AiD NoW aS JusT
    one Example of how people get turned on
    From
    off
    Lost
    iN A Science
    World of WhatEver2
    oR A DaY iN thE LiFE
    oF WhoEver
    Roots
    NoW
    aS Tree
    Or LAmp oR WHaTever3
    AnYWay.. Thanks Paul.. Great
    PrompT i’LL Be Back ExpLoRinG
    soMe morE whenEver LaTeR oNoW..:)

  6. qbit says:

    Wow!! That was terrific too! What an opening line — “i get to write with the authority of the broken”. And I love that you were abandoned by your first and only pen.

  7. Charley says:

    Ah, Paul! Absolutely. We often face the “I am he, but he is not me” of the hidden, lantern-illuminated path that produces absolutely stunning poetry. More often, I find it on your blog. Tonight, case in point. The bleeding that shimmers in this poem is both familiar and slightly just out of sight (the corner of my eyes, flickering). Absolutely wonderful!

  8. Ali Grimshaw says:

    I felt every word and I enjoyed the ride. I especially like, “the authority of the broken” Howl and sing your way forward. I look forward to reading more of your work.

  9. Gospel Isosceles says:

    That first line is astounding, Paul. It is a fortuitous thing to be broken, to have an authority that few on earth would embrace. Most like to own their thoughts and their poems, but you being broken, recognize there’s a way in and a way out. All for the best, as thoughts, and poems too, are just trying to find their way home. Like the rest of us.

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