I'm a runaway writer, the wolf of the pack,
In pursuit of the thought as the words seem to stack
One on top of another like bricks in a wall,
Like a tower, an Empire, answer the call.
But the rhythm keeps flowing, the rhyme never ends,
Like a postroom of mailbags when one letter blends
To the next in succession, a fleeting affair,
A romantic illusion, with no time to spare
On the sentiment, rushing, the train careers on,
Full of people and packages, memory and song.
With a sting in the tail, there's a transfer of weight,
Or a pause for a second . . . never too late.
It's a race in my head, it's a storm, it's a game,
And it carries me on but is never the same.
The soaring of seagulls, the roaring of rhyme,
It's a pattern that's pawing and clawing at time
Yet immerses itself in the verse of a thought,
And the fish, by the seagull is suddenly caught.
And they say it's forever, a language in stone
But the pages of people are gradually blown
One away from the other, too far and apart
To act with conviction, to play their own part.
And the words from the waves to the wind they are tossed,
And in one single moment, the poem is lost.
Copyright Vicki Watson 2012
Oct 19, 2013
Oct 19, 2013 at 6:08 PM UTC
I'm a runaway writer, the wolf of the pack,
In pursuit of the thought as the words seem to stack
One on top of another like bricks in a wall,
Like a tower, an Empire, answer the call.
But the rhythm keeps flowing, the rhyme never ends,
Like a postroom of mailbags when one letter blends
To the next in succession, a fleeting affair,
A romantic illusion, with no time to spare
On the sentiment, rushing, the train careers on,
Full of people and packages, memory and song.
With a sting in the tail, there's a transfer of weight,
Or a pause for a second . . . never too late.
It's a race in my head, it's a storm, it's a game,
And it carries me on but is never the same.
The soaring of seagulls, the roaring of rhyme,
It's a pattern that's pawing and clawing at time
Yet immerses itself in the verse of a thought,
And the fish, by the seagull is suddenly caught.
And they say it's forever, a language in stone
But the pages of people are gradually blown
One away from the other, too far and apart
To act with conviction, to play their own part.
And the words from the waves to the wind they are tossed,
And in one single moment, the poem is lost.
Copyright Vicki Watson 2012
It seems as though this one perhaps requires some sort of explanation. Perhaps it's enough to say that the mixed metaphors and relentless rhythm represent that feeling of being overtaken by the essence of a poem, and being carried along by the pull and flow of the words. Most of my writing is much more carefully planned out, but I like this poem for its spontaneity.
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