Ink stains

image: Redd Walitzki

Ink Stains

Ink stains
The outer side of her left palm
And the knuckle of her pinkie.
The words she scratches to paper
Are so furiously penned that the black
Has little time to dry.
The stains are just an obvious result.
Crouching with her feet tucked
Beneath her bum,
She perches like a feral cat
Ready to pounce.
Instead of preying upon a bird
Or wandering butterfly, however
She claws her revenge into the written word.
Loose papers litter the floor.
Coffee drips from a spoon
That is haphazardly resting atop
A stack of notebooks.
She chews on her bottom lip in concentration
As though the action will produce
A steady flow of thought.
It works
Because her fingers twitch and twist the ink
To images,
To sentences,
To murmurs of her heart.

And the paper adores this type of attention.
It likes when she finds herself
So absorbed in the task that
She has forgotten to dress.
She herself becomes a naked muse worth penning.
Tangled hair from a night's stressful,
Dream-filled sleep is brushed continuously
In a flip away from her eyes.
The red hues of it
Shimmer to gold and auburn and back
To a hint of blond
In the shaft of light that cuts her desk in two.
Even the sun enjoys rising to peek in on her
Scribbling away.
The fact that she closes her eyes
For a moment in the evenings,
Let alone an entire night,
Is a surprise unto itself.
For if she had one super power
It would be to never have to sleep.
Infinite energy to write and write and
Pour her soul into the pages of her books.

Here she is again -
Steady ritual.
A fine form of priestess
Who palms her psalms
In a desperate attempt to convert the unwilling.
And conversion is always simple.
A single phrase and she has you in rapture.
In a similar way,
She melts your heart with a smile
When a pause to think brings
Her head to a tilt in your direction.
You rest there upon the bed eyes closed,
Steady breathing.
She would draw you or
Immortalize you in ink.
You shift among the silks and fabric
Falls from your bare thighs.
What a thought!
Without a second glance,
She transforms herself into an Egyptian dream,
Etching your soul in her parchment.
Unknowingly you have become her private muse.

When at last the final word
Soaks and dries upon the paper,
She leans back stretching herself like a cat
Awaking from a trance.
Arms high above her head,
Breasts jutting outward and each leg
Unfurling from their perch one after the other.
Everywhere is a mess
As the reality of the situation
Presenting itself in her studio assaults her.
She curls her lips into a sour pucker
Before swooping her billows of hair
Into a sloppy bun atop her head
Kept in place by glasses
As they are swept from her nose
To rest on her forehead.
With a grunt,
She stands and you roll over onto your back
Stuffing your head so deep into the pillows
That even a vacuum could not wake you.

She lights up her remaining
Quarter of a cigarette, and
Stands observing her space
As though she is some explorer
Happening upon an ancient tomb.
As the medicinal gray smoke fills her lungs and
Travels through the grooves of her brain
Before being set free through the channels of her nose,
She begins to hum and
Push about a Chinese take-out box
With her big right toe.
A story,
Quite brilliant,
Is now forgotten -
The witching hour through -
And rests upon her desk in a pile of unorganized chaos.

The ink sighs
As it dries
And papers yet untouched
Wait patiently for their turn.
Because they know,
Better than she knows herself,
That she will be back before the hour is over
Once her cigarette is nothing
But a butt in its tray.
A new fantasy will have bubbled to the surface
Having originated from her soul,
And her fingers will itch.
She will capitulate to the urgings that she will
Never be able to repress.

Author's Note

My weekend morning ritual...fictionalized.

Reviews

[Frieda P]

OH how much do I love this scribble of yours, the first and last stanzas are my favorite, I wish I would have written this! 100 bubble'd fantasy's

[R. L. Hill]

Yay! I'm so glad that you love this ^_^

[Frieda P]

Felt like I was there, you and your big toe and Chinese food boxes ha ;-)

[R. L. Hill]

Haha ^_^ Gotta have that element of Quirk :D

[Frieda P]

Of course it's your signature style.... :D

[Blue]

Fierce and fiery. I like the your approach in this theme.

[R. L. Hill]

Thank you!

[Meraki]

I remember this poem, I also remember what I thought when I first read it. This is you about how engrossed you are in your writings that you can go for days without food or drink. Writing is your sustenance which also goes well with the Anais Nin quote you have. Yea the way you can turn anything into your muse (evidence in all your writings), and your ability to capture the attention of anyone who reads your works. Like after I read your short story, Crunch, I was hooked just putting that out there. You have incredible talent, makes me somewhat envious hahaha. One of my favorite writers :)

[R. L. Hill]

Aww thank you, dear ^^ That means a lot

[Ai Lun]

There aren't many pieces of writing that can make you forget that you're seeing words, and make you feel like you're watching a scene. As said before, you're level of description surpasses all that I have seen thus far. It makes me want to try to write a poem with your level of description....I will send you a read request when its done :) I guess you can honestly call this piece of work inspiring!

[R. L. Hill]

I feel honored that my work would inspire you. That makes writing poetry special for me when it spurs imagination in others. May this quote inspire you as well while pursuing a new artistic attempt: "I am always doing that which I cannot do, in order that I may learn how to do it." -Pablo Picasso

[Scott Metro]

Well written...bright..intelligent..
Very expressive.

Bravo.
Scott

[R. L. Hill]

Thank you, dear ^___^

[Scott Metro]

My pleasure my dear...

[Chloe..Across the Unive..]

Very interesting things you shared a part of yourself
With us
You definitely can write you put your all into it
Ink stains for me are rare there is something about the typewriter or keyboard that makes my fingers A bit more nimble perhaps because I cannot read my own writing

[R. L. Hill]

Thank you! I just love how it feels to scratch paper

[Chloe..Across the Universe]

You're welcome I do too I just honestly really cannot read my own writing that is true
Sad to say ha ha you do a fine job with your scratching

[love, lorey]

To this I can definitely relate. Only no coffee... I tend to overindulge in Cokes and Chocolate Milk.

Very well and beautifully written. I'm very near to jealous of your awesome talent!

[R. L. Hill]

Awwww thank you!

[MsJewel]

Another great story. I am always impressed with your writing. It is never forced, but to seems to flow as if you are breathing the words on the page...You have quite a gift my friend.

:) Julie

[R. L. Hill]

Oh thank you, Julie! So much.

[Raymond Federle]

"And all this time I'd thought cigarettes and bourbon, a darkened room, a man hunched over a typewriter, was the ultimate image of the writer.'....Well we can't all be Hemingways, thank God. LOL Wonderful story. Two opposing thumbs up.

[R. L. Hill]

You're sort of a dork, Raymond. I love it. Thanks so much for the "opposing" thumbs. Lol.

[Raymond Federle]

My ex calls me a Goob. lol

[R. L. Hill]

Goob? Ahah! Goober...I like to use Dork. It's a name of affection for me though