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I opened that notebook again,
After ages I picked my pen.
Pressed strength on my wrist,
Gave my hand a gentle twist.

Scribbling through, I went on
In the world where ink lace spun.
But it was different from what I knew,
This ink was of a different hue.

And I flipped the pages back
A glimpse of me in the ink stained rack
The letters were bolder, deeper even
They held power higher than I now sustain.

And so I closed my notebook again,
It's ink wasn't in my own pen.
And I closed the lid once more
Let it sit where it was, before.
The ink wasn't mine to use,
It wrote a story where I couldn't fuse
Srishti Jun 1
Just pen and paper,
Tells millions of feelings,
Heals millions of souls.

Just pen and paper,
The best couple without any doubt.
This combination is utopia.

Just pen and paper,
Where every word from the heart
is on paper by pen.
The art they make is priceless."
the thing which heals me is pen and paper
My pen is mourning the agonies and the sufferings
Of my people, who are drowning in the sea of misery.
My keyboard' strokes are shadowing the slow rhythms
Of the wandering beggar, who's lost in the sanctuary.

My voice denounces the filthy cholera and the injustices,
Which are punishing the weakest souls of the valley.
A tiny oligarchy is meagerly being rewarded;
What a shame for a man-made world corrupted with vices!

My daring pen defaces the inequality and the imbalance,
Which fool the image of a so called free world.
My laser beams burn the iris of the blind peasants,
Who can now see clearly the mini-sketch of my people.

I am the brother-in law of the cowardly executed poet
And the great-grandson of the poorest assassinated emperor.
I abhor the vanity and the lowliness of mankind in horror,
Oh! Lord, I'm going to read aloud twelve psalms, from my seat.

My pen is mourning my beloved people,
Who are innocently digesting the giant toxic apple.
My voice is seduced by the wind of liberty,
Which echoes the piercing screams of the hungry babies of Haiti.

P.S. Translation of 'Ma Plume Pleure Du Sang' by Hebert Logerie.

Copyright© November 2010, Hebert Logerie, All Rights Reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of four books of poems:
Maria Etre May 15
If I had one thing to say
as I pen
the (.)
at the end of this book
it would be
"Thank you for
teaching my heart
a new language"
Every heart expresses differently, but when you encounter those who fake a language just to understand yours, your whole
A Vryghter May 14
“My pen hits paper and I
drop the things that had
fallen onto my shoulders.
I grab a piece and admire,
I lay it under microscope
in the hope
it will quiet my mind.
I push the pen harder,
etching words into paper.
I write about the weight.
It keeps me sane.

If only it lightened the load.”

A.V.
Phia Apr 30
Pain is a powerful motivator
It motivates me
And my pen
To keep moving forward
Lance Remir Apr 18
We were artists
But you had the brush
And I had the pen
You drew the worlds, the people
I wrote down the feelings, explanations

You captured the images perfectly
While I can only guess at the words
The way you moved your brush
While I can only stick to lines
Beauty versus perfection

You express your worlds radiantly 
But I can only write in black and white
I wished I traded my pen for a brush
To feel the colors you weaved 
To see the world beyond my script

Maybe if I knew how to color
If my pen drew more than rigid letters
You would have understood me 
In a world of black and white 
You were the color in my life
This pen is no tool,
Nor is it a weapon,
It's a wellspring of magic,
Purist of it's kind,
All these stories in my head,
Pouring out like tears,
Dripping into to black blood I give.
My sword and my sheild.
Ah lover,
as the sun hides it’s face behind a mountain,
the moon never rests in the day; keeping the sun company –
Your company is the warmth of covering my face in the valley
of your *****; the slow beats of your heart, rest my ear at night.

Ah lover,
upon your image is this brush against the canvas,
as the artist is swept by your smile, longing to paint out
The edges of its curve – where you inner joy is warm as the
nest filled with eggs, that are protected by their mother bird.

Ah lover,
I’ve been nestled by your comforting words to no end
you are the very creative moment of inspiration to come;
but what you do isn’t a play, but you could script a good scene –
As life is art; it’s an art to love, painted to remain, ah lover, my pen.
If you're afraid to speak,
Come with me.
I'll teach you how to use a pen,
So you may write it out.
Because if you can write,
Someone else can speak it for you.
Words are power
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