Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Norman Crane Sep 10
My writing desk
My chair
A slap to the face
Fingers running through my hair
I will words
Which refuse to appear
I will
That which I will always fear
That only the quill knows how to be sincere
Unbuttoned shirt
A battered sternum
Under the hurt
The heart
Blooms the poisonous laburnum
Beating like a drum
I insert the quill
Holding in
Until it's had its fill of yellow ink
I do not think but write
Numbed but the words appear alright
I repeat until the flowers pass their bloom
And blackened fill the room
My throat is dry
My writing desk is wet
By my laburnum blood and sweat
Time to rest
To sew up my open chest
To sleep and in the morning feel again
Anatomical garden
Quill pen
Isabella Jun 28
My hand trembles with the weight of the quill pressed between my fingers,
Each stroke an ever so remarkable miracle.
For my strength falls weak as I strive to write even more.
Though the ink has long since dried up, and all I am left with are scratches on a blank page.
Perhaps the fault does not lie within the weary pen itself,
But instead with the unstable hand that holds it.
I'm sure it's easy to dip my quill back into the ink, to watch the words flow beautifully again. But I'm afraid such motivation is not as simple as it sounds.
annh Apr 18
Spin,
Mister
Fisherman,
Throw me a line;
A fluttering lure of burnished vowel chimes

Bait, braid and bailor - snap, swivel and fly;
Dub well your quill,
Hook me low,
Run me
High

‘The reality, however, is that fishing is about the closest you can get to physically experiencing poetry. It is a pursuit based on contemplation and solitude that involves an appreciation of the elements; it is a game of chance, hope, escapism; a step into the murky waters of the unknown. There is little difference between the angler setting forth on a misty dawn and the poet staring at the blank page. Both are hoping for greatness, but will settle for a brief silvery flash of the transcendental brilliance that lies beneath the surface.‘
- Ben Myers

Fishing parlance is a language as complex and arcane as the sport itself. What a happy coincidence to discover that a ‘quill’ in angler-speak refers to a float (or bobber). How ‘bout that? ;)
Isabella Mar 17
Just a lone girl, wandering the woods.
All she has is a book and her quill.
She can write, but doesn't know if she should.
And you'll just have to see if she will.
Chiara Jan 11
When my quill touches the paper
My soul mixes with ink,
It forms letters and writes poems,
About the feelings that I feel.
Vladimir Dec 2018
My quill is, simply put, – a magic tool:
It plays on winds and rhymes, on evening-mornings,
On sonnets and sonatas, never boringly;
The summer-winters, sunny moons fulfill its orders,
This verse – a pass to stars and heavens, too…

A pass to feel the spirit of adventure;
Into the theatre of storms and passions, dreams –
Where you’re the playwright and the actor, you’re free
To breathe the air of rhymes and beauty, reel
And hear a voice so young, enthralling, ancient…

My quill knows no choice, except to win –
It’s blessed by Shakespeare, Puskhin, many others;
And long ago, in ancient Greece, or maybe farther –
Apollo told me: “We are destined yet to father
A magic tome of futures, so whimsical…

And so we cooked the nectar: chords of lyre,
And Aphrodite’s smiling, thrilling eyes,
Some truthful flattery and magic in disguise –
It had no equal – healthy! – no lies.
The stars fell down for luck, the drink – so clear.

Each master and each maestro came to see –
From all the centuries and lands, and all the nations.
The wizard Merlin worked his fanciful equations,
And Cicero would speak – to melt the glaciers.
Became my palette – Earth, and skies, and seas…

Each poet, philosopher, composer, pretty muse
All nymphs and heroes, and grandmasters who came,
Inspired the drink with their talents, skills and aims,
So rose art to heights of starry fame,
And Mr. Orpheus and Lennon sang their music.

My quill has no choice, except to win:
It holds the kiss and smile of every beauty,
It lives those dreams of other artists – futile
And never made to be by their music;
To carry forth and make them true was their will.

What is this nectar? – All the legends, all the whims
And genius of masters through the ages.
We dipped my soul and quill – I dare wager
That after drinking such a mead, there’s no danger:
My pages will withstand the harshest winds.

And so they kissed the poet and the quill
To bid me luck through all the future ventures –
These charming dames of all the legends, ages;
My heart was calm but quick; serene, but raging
Before creating Universes-quilts…

My quill, it shines with festive lights and stars,
It writes and rhymes with spirit – joyful, ringing.
So what if someone angers, spouts, cringes?
So? – Winter rages when the spring is springing.
I am afraid we’re in the future – speed of flight.

So, drink the rhymes and verses, breathe the scent.
The planet spins anew, without the mires;
The violets will bloom, to be admired,
And tales are true – of mermaids, love and fire.
So go on and read, my message sent!

Now Earth will spin a little quicker, calmer,
Our world will turn a legend, true and rhyming,
Where bombs will hardly soar – only gryphons,
Where marriages and fruit will ever ripen
And never rot, where dreams are bound to come.

My quill has no choice, except to win.
It’s young and old, instant and eternal,
It’s flippant, ethical, and magical, and ornery.
Remember? – Blessed by every artist’s orders.
It’s meant to father worlds, and so will…
A monument I've raised not built with hands,
And common folk shall keep the path well trodden
To where it unsubdued and towering stands
Higher than Alexander's Column.

Alexander Pushkin
Lyn-Purcell Sep 2018


~
I hold the quill,
I have the ink and yet,
nothing seems to flow.
My mind, a blank canvas.
My heart, a startled bird.
My soul, a dying furnace.
No words to share
I am lost.
~


Feeling so stressed. Haven't written anything in a few days!
I don't like it when this happens...
Lyn ***
Star BG Sep 2018
My quill I rise in vertical stance,
letting it flow with Divine orchestration.
Its feather posture drifts as if still on birds wing,
spiraling in graceful form.
Words turn into sentences.
Sentences phases
as vellum explodes with visions.

My quill instrument vibrates
in scripted form dancing
to make waves cross ocean-like sheet.
Moments melt away.
Words become lines that
carry bubbles of thoughts
meant to float into other minds.
Sentences become bench posts
that corrals a perspective
as images collide on page.

My quill remains vertical in mind
at all times
as writer merges with moment.
As day evolves with more fuel
to push pen.
As page glistens from sun of heart.
Inspired by Pagan Paul Thank you so much for being you.
Next page