Writing The Book I Never Wrote(for Linda)
Pocket notebook
full of poems
written with a green
fountain pen
(in purple ink)
with a calligraphic flourish
left out in
the storm.
The words
run wild
go native
revert to being
just lines
rivulets of words
tributaries of words
all flow and whirl
into purple pools
purple passages
becoming watery
hieroglyphs
a secret language
made only of water and wind.
And now
the hot sun
of noon
bakes the words
cakes the pages
'til they turn and curl
leaving the book
in the position
where words
have thrown off their clothes
and become
as naked as paintings
the unmistakable brushstrokes
of rain and sun
translated into
their own native tongue.
poem by Dónall Dempsey
Added by Poetry Lover
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