For days now Mr. Bowie
has withered my poetic vine.
He absorbs all thought, each molecule
of passion.
So dreams turn monotonal
and pastel-grey wins mornings.
Twelve labours turn to twenty,
each step backbreaking toil.
Ears hum with his songs, not mine.
(So easy to find solace
when others say it better.)
Tempted – oh, yes! – to stop searching
for the word forever lost, crooked, faulty…
For just one minute I stopped upon a rock
with Sisyphus
lost in contemplation
of the melody of life.
But tell me, Mr. Bowie,
you who have known sorrow
– and great joy too, no doubt –
what do you know of my heart?
How can you show in my place
where fear fell away,
out glistened unfettered soul beneath?
You cannot speak for me
so haunt no more my mind and senses.
Leave me to find my own laborious words.
Despite the pictures and the name-dropping, this poem is not really about David Bowie at all, although you know that I am a fan. It’s about writing, finding words to describe your experiences, finding your own voice, inspiration: all the bees that are currently flying around in my bonnet. Buzz over to the dVerse Poets Pub today, where they have Open Link Night.
findingtimetowrite 