This is my attempt to understand both the dangers and rewards awaiting those who dare to write - and then send the results out into the ether.
Writing is exquisite pain and pleasure, bound
in sprayed-on railway walls, in tapping dry
black torrents like gushing wells: ill-found,
spectacular but slowly emptying to reveal
a vault of sky so bright, so slyly hiding its intent
that words, as weapons, leave the writer's mind unmeant.
And this is so for those who shout in whispers
on white canvas, quarto sheet, computer, mobile phone:
would have one breathe “yes, yes, I understand” at vespers
said on autumn evenings, as the sun's inclining gloam
relieves the sear of day with cleric night-balm;
blessed comprehension daily moulding terrors calm.
Since we who know we cannot, finally, apprehend
nor harbour mere suspicion of a reasoned, human sense
as gleaned from black marks on paper, from teeth and tongue of friend,
and prefer the presence of the dawn, cold-blue in its incandescence,
a time to write of journeys undertaken and complete
while planning others still within our compass, and our feet.