Our destination might not
be a place but our source of motivation is. It becomes the intimate pub or
inn where we gather with our peers, thoughts and dreams. Where the flames rise with
our breath as we imagine an image and give it expression. Here, we seek the shelter
of both silence and sound. We look for what casts an irregular shadow or how a
particular noise evokes other associations, familiar or strange. This place may
be physical or spiritual, real or figurative. Yet at some point, it will
close. The roof will leak, the walls will crack, the boards will warp and andirons
will guard damp wood. And that signals for
us, it’s time to move on, look elsewhere to work our tales and songs. As writers we continue to evolve and explore our
mind’s potential. Our voice changes and our style of composing as well. Leaving the old niche is never easy but
essential to attain growth and diversity. However, what stays behind also remains significant. It
may fall to ruin but still casts a spell, a haunting legacy. Like whirling leaves,
words still circling in space, that had been half born or spoken, are drawn down and left
to become breathing embers. Scraps of a theme we can revisit and reshape. Our past perspective still keeps the bones of its original structure and serves as witness
to a place that formed us in the raw years, our first nature and identity as a poet. Something
we should return to, respect
and never diminish. Memory and curious need
give us license to migrate back, to even refurbish what had never
been properly finished or acclaimed.
give us license to migrate back, to even refurbish what had never
been properly finished or acclaimed.
The Inn Of Verse
The doors bolted
lanterns dark.
A man
bundled with reeds
on his back
looks elsewhere
to stoke his thoughts.
A woman
with her shawland bag of wool
turns elsewhere
to weave her tale.
The twilight stark
as seagulls strikethe air with their shriek –
their
flint tongues
hungeringinto ruin.
And still
old wood, broken slatecast a spell
calling
down
the
whirling leavescircling words,
the breath of the moon.
____________________________________________
Note -- the italicized opening to the essay is a paraphrased version of Henry Miller's
quote on travelling -- " ''One’s destination is never a place, but a new way of seeing things.''
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