The trepidation is acute
I ain’t got no motivation
Not even for a haiku
It’s verging on paralysing
But I must write for you
An ephemeral burst
of Fireblossom’s perfumes
these anxieties are
intrinsic word engines
Experimenting – to that motion
By stirring the pot, poets shirk
responsibility when it’s taboo
Sober rhythms revealing
something of my soul
I can scent intentions
but it’s also little wonder
I felt scared
The art blues of a job left undone,
of lucky fragments lacking sense,
is its own torment
zeroes sums to a dream unrealised
The coyote eats its own kind,
and fox of hell’s hidden rooms
turning creativity, so cunning,
into wildflowers of a beautiful war
After all that digging, in the weeds
are heroes of the noblest contest
The lilies, finest of them all
in this soup of writing,
of punning, all manner of things
shall be well.
This is another old dVerse prompt that I kept in mind and returned to today. The idea is to write a new poem while weaving in fragments of an old poem, which must be kept in their original order. I decided to use my own short poem, ‘No Haiku’, italicised above. While thinking about this idea, I was also reading the latest (at the time) Red Hand Files #365, from which I noted down several nice phrases (in bold above) in Nick Cave’s reply, along with a quote (bold italic) from Julian of Norwich, utilised for the title and final line. I decided to try to work these two narratives together. Clean text below should be easier to read.
The trepidation is acute
I ain’t got no motivation
Not even for a haiku
It’s verging on paralysing
But I must write for you
An ephemeral burst
of Fireblossom’s perfumes
these anxieties are
intrinsic word engines
Experimenting to that motion
By stirring the pot, poets shirk
responsibility when it’s taboo
Sober rhythms revealing
something of my soul
I can scent intentions
but it’s also little wonder
I felt scared
The art blues of a job left undone,
of lucky fragments lacking sense,
is its own torment
zeroes sums to a dream unrealised
The coyote eats its own kind,
and fox of hell’s hidden rooms
turning creativity, so cunning,
into wildflowers of a beautiful war
After all that digging, in the weeds
are heroes of the noblest contest
The lilies of them all
in this soup of writing,
of punning, all manner of things
shall be well.
Today’s Daily Stoic poem:
1994ever 