Jul 02 2017

Words on Words by Alec Trivass

my eyes are aching

and i’m so tired

and yet i’m still trying to write poetry.

trying,with a choice few words,

to convey a whole world of meaning.

not merely to turn an empty carton of chocolates……

into flowery nothing.

does poetry arrive at my pen’s nib, spontaneously,

or is it worked on, and thought out,

in order to achieve perfection?

do i work from a store of poetic phrases housed

in a book? do they spring, full-blooded, from my intellect?

are they teased there from out into the harsh glare of shonal scrutiny

by the application of copious doses of jamaican wine?

the enigma must stay an enigma, for none

shall discern the inner workings of my mind until they

too  can conjure poetry of equal worth,

for then they shall have magic of their own

to spin the golden thread with which to weave

gilded words into the mysterious enchantment

of a truly estimable poem.

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