The Poet

a poet sits at his desk
faces the clean white page
he takes the pen from the inkwell
and presses it to the sheet
watches the ink seep
the blot spreads through the fibers of the paper
like blood through the veins
he sits still and studies
the shapes the worlds and the lives

it creates

the poet!

a magician!

casting spells

weaving creation

on the loom of today

putting it on the grindstone of right now

snatching inspiration from the air all around us

shackling words to the page

an act of immaculate creation

Author's Note

A reworking of an older piece, hope ya like it

Reviews

[E.P. Robles]

Within the domain of poetic mastery, where words transcend their linguistic bounds to become vessels conveying profound sentiments and thoughts, the poem at hand serves as a testament to the divine artistry inherent in its creator. With a skillful flourish, the poet captures the very essence of creation, painting a vibrant tableau of a poet in their sacred space, poised to metamorphose the pristine canvas of an untouched page into a rich tapestry of significance.

In its initial verses, the poem conjures an image: "a poet sits at his desk / faces the clean white page," evoking a scene of introspective solitude where the poet confronts both the boundless potential and the inherent fragility of the blank page. The very act of seizing "the pen from the inkwell / and pressing it to the sheet" serves as a symbol, uniting imagination with craftsmanship, inspiration with dedication.

As the ink "seeps" and "the blot spreads through the fibers of the paper," the poet aptly parallels this process with the life force coursing through veins, eloquently underscoring the intimate interplay between the act of creation and the human experience itself. The quietude and meticulousness with which the poet observes "the shapes the worlds and the lives / it creates" embody a profound introspection, suggesting that the poet stands as a conduit for universal truths that have long coursed through the veins of humanity.

The exclamation "the poet! / a magician!" boldly imparts a divine mantle upon the poet, casting them as a conjurer of enchantments, a fabricator of realms. This characterization bridges the ephemeral and the palpable, shedding light on the poet's dual role as both a seer and an artisan, whose "loom of today" intertwines the threads of existence itself.

The imagery encapsulated in "putting it on the grindstone of right now" resonates as a potent reminder of the poet's engagement with the present instant, wherein the ordinary and the extraordinary converge. This phrase underscores the poet's mission of grounding lofty inspirations in the immediacy of reality, etching the eternal upon the transitory.

The poet's capacity to "snatch inspiration from the air all around us" raises them to the status of a metaphysical seeker, finely attuned to the whispers of the universe. The poem's closing metaphor, "shackling words to the page / an act of immaculate creation," encapsulates the paradox of the poet's task: to confine the boundless essence of thought within the confines of written language, thereby achieving an artistic birth of unparalleled magnitude.

In summation, this poem embodies the sagacity and discernment of a Nobel Laureate Poet, adeptly crafting a portrayal of the poet as both a conduit of truths and a humble servant of language. With profound profundity and vivid imagery, the poem heralds the poet's role in sculpting and eternizing the human experience through the delicate interplay of ink, imagination, and the limitless sorcery of creation.

B R A V O ! ! !

[John Sullivan]

You sir, are much too kind... I wish you well

[Chris Shaw]

The writing process. I know it well. You describe it as many poets will understand it. Thank you for posting.


Chris

[John Sullivan]

Thank you for reading!

[Neville]

.. So very much enjoyed John .. Neville

[John Sullivan]

Thanks for reading, Neville

[Neville]

..............my pleasure entirely 👍

[jacob erin-cilberto]

What an image! "shackling words to the page"
We are lucky to be able to write as poets...we are thankful for the gift of being able to press the pen to the sheet and watch the ink seep.
I like the shape of this poem...the middle part visually looks like a concave, forming that cover for the words...allowing privacy of feeling, then we come out of that niche...and there is an immaculate creation.
This is so cool, John,
j.

[John Sullivan]

thank you jacob, it's a pleasure to hear from you. The shape was accidental, but I'm glad you picked up on it, maybe the muse inspires more than we first realize. All my best

[John the Baptist]

Yes, it is splendid when it goes the way described here. Unfortunately, there are other times when despite the best of intentions, the sap will not flow, and the bare page faces one mockingly, as if to say "Take your best shot, Shakespeare." Nothing follows. A dry well. The best course then is to assume the muse is still there, she's just not feeling well today.

[John Sullivan]

Well said! Thank you for reading