Breaking free from the chains
That bind me down
To me
I want to float away
Far from the reach
Of these constellations
Into a land of my mind
This cage of my soul,
And explore new horizons
And let the writer be born.
Born free of me,
Free to tell the stories,
Some them my own,
Carefree…
Free of my existence,
And existence of its own…
An existence without a face
An existence defined by the constellations
Of the stories I wove.
2 comments:
Here's an interesting poem that was one of my GCSE set-texts:
The Writer
The best story, of course,
is the one you can't write,
you won't write.
It's something that can only live
in your heart,
not on paper.
Paper is dry, flat.
Where is the soil
for the roots, and how do I lift it out
entire trees, a whole forest
from the earth of the spirit
and transplant it on paper
without disturbing the birds?
And what about the mountain
on which this forest grows?
The waterfalls
making rivers,
rivers with throngs of trees
elbowing each other aside
to have a look
at the fish.
Beneath the fish
there are clouds.
Here, the sky ripples,
the river thunders.
How would things move on paper?
Now watch the way
the tigers' walking
shreds the paper.
Sonnet 17 - William Shakespeare
this touches upon the ultimate inadequacy of the written word, it's also a love-poem so maybe it has a place in your novel
Who will believe my verse in time to come
If it were filled with your most high deserts? -
Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb
Which hides your life, and shows not half your parts.
If I could write the beauty of your eyes
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age to come would say 'This poet lies;
Such heavenly touches ne'er touched your earthly faces.'
So should my papers, yellowed with their age,
Be scorned, like old men of less truth than tongue,
And your true rights be termed a poet's rage
And stretched metre of an antique song.
But were some child of yours alive that time,
You should live twice: in it, and in my rhyme.
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