the undertaking that a poem is

who saw that slithering liaison in the bushes?
it creeps forth as the moonlit sky grows dubious
of the possibility of its own virtue,
slyly, the sun peeks from the edges of a sight’s view,

a cuckolding cockerel rises and crows, an arrival
of a distant beam breaking the sweat of a dark cloud,
and a nice plumage hovers in the air
brightened by the prospect of that tantalizing warmth,

the stomach heaves, the chest sinks, and the velvet
dimension vibrates with that noise yet again,
there’s movement, there’s a curtain swaying
desperate now to be flung apart, and show the scene

of this instant, this momentary lapse of that beastly
no-man, clawing across the white that pervades
on my page, small prints emerge, the purity fades
and from nothingness, a poem springs forth, clinging

to the nature’s call, go on, go on, ask again, see again,
die again, but for a word that memorizes the soul,
and there’s light, and there’s lethargy in the voice
of that fiend, perhaps it’s the end with a final dot.

.

Linking it up with Weekend Mini Challenge at With Real Toads and Poets United.

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14 thoughts on “the undertaking that a poem is

  1. One word… Wow!❤️ You have depicted so very elegantly the process of (you) writing a poem, especially love this; “the stomach heaves, the chest sinks, and the velvet dimension vibrates with that noise yet again, there’s movement, there’s a curtain swaying desperate now to be flung apart, and show the scene of this instant.” Beautifully rendered.❤️

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  2. “…but for a word that memorizes the soul” Brilliant! The phrasing made me think of a friend’s rather ridiculous joke–he said that writing poetry is no big deal, since all the words are already written. Your poem says exactly why crafting poetry is both wonderful and special: we need to search for that word, the one that kisses our soul and makes itself alive, and while we look the word must find us too. This is lovely.

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  3. Kerry O'Connor says:

    Such a strong piece with an amazing collection of words:

    clawing across the white that pervades
    on my page, small prints emerge… An excellent image of the poetic process.

    Like

  4. A wonderful and surprising description of the creation of a poem in the form of a cockerel. I love the way you’ve described that ‘cuckolding cockerel’:

    ‘the stomach heaves, the chest sinks, and the velvet
    dimension vibrates with that noise yet again’

    and

    ‘…clawing across the white that pervades
    on my page, small prints emerge, the purity fades
    and from nothingness, a poem springs forth…’

    Like

  5. How does does one splice intrigue into the birthing of a poem, only you can answer that question as you have so rightly done with this one Anmol.

    Much love…

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  6. “and from nothingness, a poem springs forth, clinging
    to the nature’s call, go on, go on, ask again, see again,
    die again, but for a word that memorizes the soul”…………… Hank, that gave me so much pleasure. Just beautiful

    Like

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