#488 (writer’s wrists)

“There is no beauty without the wound. – Francis Bacon”

I thought about breaking that

glassen tea pot, sinking

my wrists into the shards.

What colour would the ink

pouring out have? Would it be

fading grey like the clouds

at sunrise that give way

for brightest blue? Would

it be green, like the moss

growing under the sink,

or black like the tar in

my lungs? Would it paint

words of wisdom or shatter

my illusions? Do I need to

break the pen in order to

write a poem? Do I need to

scatter myself and reassemble,

trembling, losing a little, every

time I draw another verse?

How far am I willing to go,

to let the world know, how

much I cared? Every piece of

me I give, I give freely, resting

on the idea, that it might come

back in some way or the other,

if the muses won’t choose another,

burdening them with the pleasure

of stringing words, sometimes

the noose to hang your rotten

morals, sometimes the tender

touch of a bracelet, guarding

your pulsating desires, if

one day you might get ideas

about breaking glass.

 

© Matthias Grupe, 9th August 2018

2 Comments

  1. Of the several poems of yours I’ve read, Matthias, I like this one the best. I was only half way through before I knew I was yours to lose. The imagery is fresh and striking, the message makes visceral and concrete Bacon’s words. The truth expressed is an important one to anyone who creates.

    Thank you for sharing that.

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