The man sits at his desk,
in front of his computer monitor,
fingers perched over his keyboard,
ready to strike the right keys,
to form the right words,
to make the right lines,
that will comprise his next great poem.
Oh, this is gonna be a good one.
He can feel it.
The words write themselves in fact.
The keys are being struck rapidly now
and it’s as if his mind is on
autopilot.
One word after another,
one line following brilliantly
from the line before it.
Each stanza a poem unto itself.
He pauses only momentarily
to decide
where to break the stanzas and
where exactly it would be
appropriate to drop
down two lines.
But this hesitation is short-lived,
and the poem continues to write
itself in front of his
very eyes until – at just the
right moment,
he realizes that the poem is done,
I like it. The reader, (in this case, must be me, right?), shares in the wonder with the writer of a poem appearing before one’s eyes.
How would, tip of the iceberg, function as a title? Cliche? Yea - I’m unoriginal. Perhaps, though, untitled seems best - unless you’re a Freudian/Jungian I suppose (those who dare to metamorphize poetic wonder into psyhco-babble). The extroverted poet!
You probably would write really nice prose too, rainey. That is, if you were so inclined to do so.
Thanks TUM. Yeah, I’d like to write a short story some time. The problem, frankly, is my short attention span. I start them then get bored with them and always go back to writing a poem. Laziness really.
Good line, OK Computer. Or as baseball Hall of Famer Yogi Berra once said in an uncharacteristic moment of clarity: How am I supposed to think and bat at the same time?
