SELF/POETRY

Finding My Words

Is this what it means to be a poet?

In that other time I spoke in prose, ordered phrases falling line after line, on to the page

I thought of myself not as a writer, merely a cypher documenting the pain of others Then the words slowed to a trickle, syllables wrapped me in warm confusion until finally, I emerged heart in hand

Now, with stringy hair and blackened eyes I pace the room in yesterdays clothes, searching for meaning in abbreviated form

Sleep is a tortured affair as I wander through watery dreams, words percolating

I wake to find mysterious hieroglyphics scrawled on the wall, the work of some ghostly scribe

I pull on boots and head to the forest, seeking a reprieve from raging thoughts

But soon see letters like icicles, dripping off wintry boughs and stumble home, chanting an incoherent prayer

Family turn away, embarrassed by this baring of my soul

But I dare not disturb my muse, knowing nothing of how she was born and loving her all the more

For what have I become if not a poet?

©Dr Jackie Greenwood 2021

Thanks for reading :)

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