deepundergroundpoetry.com
Drought
Sometimes I find that I have lost my words --
and closed, are paths, that once were winding
and doused, are lights, that once were blinding.
They go to literary graves, I've heard--
and silence me, my voice, in binding
and dry the pen, the ink unwinding.
They're hiding in the summertime
I'm peeling layers off my skin
I'm finding nothing there to rhyme
Nothing lying deep within.
And if I hold you near me now
do you think that you might see
thoughts and letters swirling 'round,
drowning in transparency
-- of my dried up lines.
and closed, are paths, that once were winding
and doused, are lights, that once were blinding.
They go to literary graves, I've heard--
and silence me, my voice, in binding
and dry the pen, the ink unwinding.
They're hiding in the summertime
I'm peeling layers off my skin
I'm finding nothing there to rhyme
Nothing lying deep within.
And if I hold you near me now
do you think that you might see
thoughts and letters swirling 'round,
drowning in transparency
-- of my dried up lines.
Published 28th Jul 2021
Author's Note
Written for the trials of poetry comp
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 4
reading list entries 1
comments 8
reads 556
Commenting Preference:
The author encourages honest critique.
Anonymous
28th Jul 2021 5:07am
Food For Thought--
Poems & words hiding in summertime...Hmm...
I'm reminded of a story about the Irish painter, Francis Bacon.
As a bon vivant, homosexual pederast, and gambling junkie in the 60s & 70s, Bacon's favorite place on earth was Morocco.
However, he always returned to dreary, depressing, grey, cold, London.
He eventually realized that he could only paint in rather depressing environs--the sun, the open-ness, the beautiful weather...of Morocco...sapped his creative drive.
I once was speaking to a psychiatrist, and she explained that when working with "creatives," she had to be careful--too "happy," ie too much serotonin, too much dopamine, etc., and they lose the creative drive...but not enough, and they succumb to the things that live in the dark.
Hang in there!
Poems & words hiding in summertime...Hmm...
I'm reminded of a story about the Irish painter, Francis Bacon.
As a bon vivant, homosexual pederast, and gambling junkie in the 60s & 70s, Bacon's favorite place on earth was Morocco.
However, he always returned to dreary, depressing, grey, cold, London.
He eventually realized that he could only paint in rather depressing environs--the sun, the open-ness, the beautiful weather...of Morocco...sapped his creative drive.
I once was speaking to a psychiatrist, and she explained that when working with "creatives," she had to be careful--too "happy," ie too much serotonin, too much dopamine, etc., and they lose the creative drive...but not enough, and they succumb to the things that live in the dark.
Hang in there!
29th Jul 2021 6:09pm
28th Jul 2021 4:37pm
Dear ML,
Wonderful imagery throughout the poem depicting the desperation of having no words to communicate. Lots of subdued energy and ever so relatable.
I wish you the best for this comp.
great write. H🌷
Wonderful imagery throughout the poem depicting the desperation of having no words to communicate. Lots of subdued energy and ever so relatable.
I wish you the best for this comp.
great write. H🌷
29th Jul 2021 6:10pm
29th Jul 2021 1:22pm
29th Jul 2021 6:11pm
Lol thanks-- that's Bronson. I named him after the actor Charles Bronson 😺
31st Jul 2021 11:58am
2nd Oct 2023 4:48pm
