I have a pen but no paper,
So I write on my skin,
The private whisper urging me,
“Get it down now, this time this place”.
In this single room, this bed,
So careless to have no paper,
No one to share these thoughts,
That echo along my arm,
That tingle into my flesh,
And scrape up next to my wrist.
Here now, this time, this place.
This quiet solitary limb must suffice.
There will be other times,
But not this time.
It has made its mark on me.
Comments
sarah wilson | November 5, 2009 - 15:14
I really like this. It suggest to me a kind of self harm, having to get the words out. Great!!
Nick.A | November 7, 2009 - 18:21
Thanks Sarah,
It looked really good on my arm when I first wrote it, shame the ink wasn't permanent - perhaps one day I will summon up the courage to get it done as a tattoo.
It's really about the need to write and an attempt to capture the mood of that quiet moment. But poems should work on differnet levels and I think it is good that readers bring their own interpretations and concerns and make different connections.
Afterwards it inspired a quite different poem that definitely had elements of self or non-self harming so maybe that was always there when I wrote this although not entirely consciously
Silver Spun Sand | November 7, 2009 - 19:30
I missed this one previously. Great poem.
tina