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
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.
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? ;)