Open Journal: Nocturne of the Soul

It used to be so easy, surfing that rush of creation.

Just write another novel. It would take her, what, a month?

 

That was before.

Before what?

Before.

 

She doesn’t even know what’s most to blame, anymore.

The burnout, that trauma, the crunch of adult life… what does it matter?

 

The result’s the same.

Her identity, sleeping.

She’s barely a writer, now.

 

But those magnets.

Two sets of two-hundred-plus.

Words at the ready, just waiting for something to say.

 

A spirit inside moves her outsides.

Allyn-a-Dale reaches with her hand.

 

They were bought for him, the magnets. Sets inspired

by music and Edgar another-Allan Poe.

Words to which the minstrel cannot but viscerally respond –

 

dark… dead… allegro…

lyrical… symphony… nevermore…

 

He plucks a sentence from the store, drawing it together, swift and sure,

as if he were Michelangelo and the phrase

a sculpture waiting in the stone.

 

Lovely, she thinks,

perhaps content to leave it.

But Allyn’s far from done.

 

Another sentence,

built more slowly, hunting

for the elements desired, feeling out

phonetic rhythm.

 

Words call as only song and the macabre can:

hole and soulstrange and shrouddawn and sky pull at his blood.

But there’s a story forming now in which these have no rightful place.

Another time. Another tale. Today, the song is his,

but played for her.

 

This is how you do it, he tells her

in his fingers’ silent dance.

This is how we breathe.

 

One word swapped, at a thought, for another.

One sentence shifted down, later lines taking its place.

The sculpture in full emerges from marble.

The artist steps back and shoves author forward

in time to ride the crest of the wave.

 

There! The rush. The writer’s high.

Only a breath of the air, but sweet as remembered.

 

Thank you, they tell each other,

and float together.

<<<>>>

Magnet Poetry_Nocturne of the Soul

string every unknown mystery

into some sweet opus

 

face your nocturne of the soul

by singing melancholy moonlight

 

howl down a haunting sonata

 

love softly

& live loud

 

maestro death

conducts his orchestra

 

but I know my power

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s