The pen falls sharp, and paper is made
Submissive by suspense’s standing beat.
It, from his mind, of lost thoughts were born,
As if from the corpses of memories raised.
White is gradually consumed by black.
There seems a glinting calm in his eye.
Through light and dark has peered this eye,
Window of a boisterous soul: not made,
Not wrought, but somehow found in the black,
In the “why” that makes his heart beat.
It is from here that the rebus is raised,
And from there that words are born.
Unlike humans, they are tenaciously born,
Though heavily guarded by his sentinel eye.
He has no control over what will be raised,
For the words are a burden until free made.
They hammer in his mind a feverish beat.
Left rampant, they would paint the world black.
Such flamboyance amidst the black.
From where are the benign colors born
That spray, that twine, that boldly beat
Across the page beneath his eye?
His craft is sequence, deployment. Though made
From onyx, chromism is raised.
Though first a tumult, order is raised.
And on the page the torrential black
Proses the world, until all is made
That same montage of hues. Born
Again. Children under the sentinel eye.
All things baffling are given a beat.
The pen falls. His enigma will beat
The raging of the mind, of questions raised.
But he exists to beat. Never will his eye
Be manumitted from the bedlam black.
For this sole purpose he was born.
For reason’s making he was made.
Beating on. He beats on, made
Content. Born to beat, raised to reason,
The blackness of the world is given light in his eyes.
- Title: Writer
- Artist: Emanuelle Simoen
- Description: This is my first shot at a sestina. I usually hate writing poetry (and rarely do), because I'm not very good at it. But I wanted to see how well this poem would turn out if I really put some effort into it. This is a first draft.
- Date: 05/08/2009
- Tags: write sestina darkness imagination