Pocket notebook <br />full of poems <br /> <br />written with a green <br /> <br />fountain pen <br />(in purple ink) <br /> <br />with a calligraphic flourish <br /> <br />left out in <br />the storm. <br /> <br />The words <br />run wild <br /> <br />go native <br /> <br />revert to being <br />just lines <br /> <br />rivulets of words <br />tributaries of words <br /> <br />all flow and whirl <br />into purple pools <br /> <br />purple passages <br /> <br />becoming watery <br />hieroglyphs <br /> <br />a secret language <br /> <br />made only of water and wind. <br /> <br />And now <br />the hot sun <br />of noon <br /> <br />bakes the words <br />cakes the pages <br />'til they turn and curl <br /> <br />leaving the book <br />in the position <br /> <br />where words <br />have thrown off their clothes <br /> <br />and become <br />as naked as paintings <br /> <br />the unmistakable brushstrokes <br /> <br />of rain and sun <br /> <br />translated into <br />their own native tongue.<br /><br />Dónall Dempsey<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/writing-the-book-i-never-wrote-for-linda/
