Deep into Saturday night, a friend reminded me that I once wrote poetry. That I once thought in images. That I once undertook to create beauty with words.
I do not why I stopped.
I attempted a beginning the following day and have precisely three lines to show for it. I am at once amused and disappointed by myself.
My muse will return to me... I am certain of it. I remember the passage from what was plainly catharsis to what I considered accomplishment. Times unnumbered, my pen ran dry and not merely of ink. Those were the days I used a fountain pen and lovely, lovely handmade paper books, full of criss-crosses, fresh starts and the joy of expression.
What follows is the particular bit of poetry (if I may presume to call it so) I am most proud of. It came of great love, both given and taken, a time of joy... and a time of parting.
Of You and I
Beautiful, beautiful summer,
Evaporating faster than vodka.
Like ghosts in the fragile dawn,
Memories emerge to speak to me.
Speak to me...
Of evenings of Irish Coffee.
Drowning along the water's edge,
Panoramas of Elves, Men and Halflings unfold.
Frustrating, unintelligible letters
Become intimacy within smoke circles.
Around us, the silence is gray.
The silence is a pebble in my mouth.
You touch me... and smile.
I turn - to return to you.