Transcription

A short pondering.

I sit,

Intending to write

What is on my mind.

I realize, however,

That this

Blank page

Has already captured

My thoughts

Consummately.

Why riddle this

Perfection

With the pathogenic speckles

Of my spittle?

Why, indeed?

Author's Note

This requires little explanation.

Reviews

[i.am.the.sun.]

exactly, i quite agree with poeticadia's comment; what this poem is about could/should be summed up in an impossibly small amount of words. impossibly is the key word there. there is no way to explain how something doesn't need explaining without using too many words. while this is great, once you start ruining the "page" with your "spittle" (though far from it it may be) it becomes so much less than a perfectly blank page.
i've written one or two things on/about this exact thing, and i've run into the same problem. if i remember which is what i'll let you know, but until them keep trying to figure out the problem of... self representation...? withing one's writing... and i'll be there with you. nonetheless, this is a fantastic poem. good job buddy.
sorry i've been away from this... cafe.. (i hate calling this such) for so long. but i'm back for now. and i'm glad you've kept writing. you are by far one of my favorites to read.

[Angela H.]

Ha! Yes, indeed! I know that feeling well! From the outside looking in, there's serenity and infinitely possibility. But from the inside looking out, perhaps there is yearning? Some seed itching to burst forth, pathogenic or otherwise? How to begin? Let's see, as I recall, a good starting mantra: "Let there be light!" ;)

[Poeticadia]

An enigmatic little poem... a clear mind like a blank page can be quite satisfying sometimes... uncluttered. But this also reminds me of the paradox of poems written on the subject of 'writers block' or indeed, empty pages. I love the use of 'riddle' - with its direct and implied meaning.