To a Young Poetess

Young poetess,

your words lie in wait,

mute for so long,

harnessed for so long.

Now make of your pencil

an enraged mouth,

let the sentences,

crowded and tossed together,

boiled in cauldrons

of restless sleep,

fly from you

faster than the

pain and meaning

that forged them.

Yes defeat will come,

like and anvil.

There will be nights,

black nights,

when your pen will

lie upon its cold,

un-responding stone,

an alien, wounding thing,

its ink the dark clot

in your throat.

Take heart.

Even the lioness

falters in her gorgeous chase.

The anvil too, is a message,

to be received, transformed,

passed on to break others.

Beat from it arrows

of crystalline pain.

Young word-sayer,

unleash your quiver

across my surrendered page,

tear fissures through which

I might, at last,

receive your searing,

wind-flung, reborn voice.

 

Copyright Ricky Barrow 2014

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