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.
HA's Place 
Oh yes.. the voice of that cuckolding cockerel … so much pain in that dawn… and how well to have that poem finished with that voice…
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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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“…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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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.
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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…’
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A densely evocative piece of writing, HA! Always good to see you at PU.
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A descriptive journey indeed! Well said.
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Yay, it’s HA stopping by! I love the cuckolding cockerel and the marks across that blank page. You made me see them both.
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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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Oh…”but for a word that memorizes the soul”–yes!
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The metaphor of day break works so well to describe the birth of a poem…beautifully done.
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a birth has pain and always dispels darkness so wonderfully brought out in a poem slowly seeing the light of the day….
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Wow, stunning!
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“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
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