All the way to me
then straight through me
threading reason’s lean and slender path
words are breaking brief as kindling lights
and vanishing more quickly than ghosts.
Retreating, regrouping
they stand ready to run again
far from this frail and fumbling pen
that, though tries, fails to hold them written.
Hide and sneakily seeking it
I give chase like the Great White Hunter
with this pen, my only blood hound
doubling as blunderbust.
I give chase like the Great Fool Poet.
Fox hunt hurrying on behind them
with my gun cocked, safety catch gone, held at the ready
to lambaste them profoundly
if ever they are found.
Words are only that, they are words
nothing more.
Shallow as puddles beside the monstrous oceans
of emotions that can neither rival the tide
nor even really define it.
But, though puddles they be
they remain
as all we have
so sounding the hunt horn
on again head long again
I charge.
Words are only that, they are words
nothing more.
And yet these words when they fail to come
rally to conspire great frustration
which is after all, the very meat of creation.
But Damn It! a poet needs words
in the practice of his craft
and as they still will not come,
I bundle my hunting gear
and trundle clumsily along the scent
hoping vainly
for divine intervention
aligned with my cause.
And the soft padding feet
of this pen upon paper
warns loudly of my coming
such that when I arrive
find them already run.
Already run and long gone.
Retreating, regrouping,
rubbing sly hands together
scheming projected escapes
while winking and snickering
giggling quick tidbits
about this poor foolish hunter
who listen comes on again
still way behind.
Ian David Arlett
Peterborough Poets 