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No poem leaves my desk today,
no words written, no thoughts on life,
a silence, like the snow falling in my head,
a softened fall.

All white the sheet of paper, blank and sour
it scowls at me, 
I'm pure it seems to say,
do you now dare to use my surface for your gain,
abuse me with your name.

How dare you touch my pristine light, 
to smudge a sentence, 
soil my only dream 
to stay completely clean. 

What makes you feel I like your scratching pen,
your flourish of the ink,
so black that anyone would think me dead, 
until the day you painted climbing plants in colours,
framed me on the wall for all to see,
'twas then I understood the importance of my worth,
the reason for my birth

Style / type: 
Free verse
Last few words: 
I did write something after all.
Editing stage: 


And you definitely enhanced the paper with your words!

I often find your poetry lacking a little je ne sais quoi, but this is gorgeous, sad, meaningful and gorgeous.

A new workshop on the most important element of poetry-
'Rhythm and Meter in Poetry'

Modern poets are supposed to be rebellious
or sad, in trouble or suicidal, worried
and entertained by dark thoughts.
That is the norm for the young,
no longer sent, intoxicated by love and wonder
at all that is in nature and man,
but disgruntled, sorrowful and bad,
ugly vulgarity is praised.

Where the aesthetic beauty of things is laughed at
as a blemish to their strength of character.
Things political, things dwelling on famines,
floods and tempests of fear,
awakening devilled society
and its unhealthy greed
steering the vessel into the maelstrom
of daily perils; that is what interests most,
It is the norm.

Perhaps it has always been for some, so,
is it poetry's lot to tell only of things that fill us
with the great, the all powerful the loud, the uncouth,
the exquisite screams of emotion?

Music too loud, the organ blazing its chords
as the skies open to spew out their wrath,
love is sung about as if it too were this,
too overdone, until one wonders, just as
paradise must be a most boring place
(as described by the religious) so too
is this heart-beat-rhythm without break
and kind of hell, we create hell on earth
as well as paradise, both have their place
as the one without the other is nothing.

Love Ann-just thinking around your remark,
glad you felt you wished to make it thank you Jess.

"The image of yourself which you see in a mirror Is dead,
but the reflection of the moon on water, lives." Kenzan.

author comment

Thanks all, Beau, you ask about the name, I didn't quite know what to call it, and am open to other suggestions, the paper was the novice, new. Do you have any ideas? I wrote it in the wash room yesterday looking out at the snow falling slowly.

Love Ann in the snow.

The' je ne sai quoi' I understand, they are too straight forward perhaps Jess, and have too much nature in them for your taste, it is she who inspires me to enjoy the world around me, and inevitably the words revolve around her blooms; if you could put your finger on it I would be grateful, quoi? Ann.

"The image of yourself which you see in a mirror Is dead,
but the reflection of the moon on water, lives." Kenzan.

author comment

I bow..................stan

A write that we all have, yet you have portrayed it so well, I only wish I could remember some of those I have written, but this is how we write.
Blank looks, blank pages, then that niggling fear of ruining a pure piece of space lol.
Take great care our Lady of Norway, I see stirrings in the soil of renewed life, Yours as always Ian.T

There are a million reasons to believe in yourself,
So find more reasons to believe in others..

Funny though I have hardly ever been scared of the white page, I was writing for the writers who have writers block, I find the empty page challenging, and maybe tingle with excitement before starting to 'abuse' its purity, but with an air of expectation. I suppose it might be due to my mother teaching us at the age of three to draw great big letters, a circle fist I even remember that one, huge as big as ourselves, this helps- my mother was a Frobal kindergarten teacher, trained as such, which gave us an advantage.

But today FULL SUNSHINE good white snow, we were atop the hill here and there was a little girl, half as high as myself, she stumbled to move her heavy slalom skis, saying where are we going Dad, down here he said, looking down at 45 % angle to the tiny hut far below, a steep slalom hill all of which wasn't even visible, and she just said okay and set out down it, straight down it!!!! WOW , next we saw her going backwards down the down-hill, if only we were young again!! I would like the one sledge ski, ski-board I think it's called; oh WHAT fun they have dashing on those through the woods over humps and jumps among the trees a narrow swinging path none of which is parallel to the ground beneath. Phew that they dare.

Thank you Ian, love Ann.

"The image of yourself which you see in a mirror Is dead,
but the reflection of the moon on water, lives." Kenzan.

author comment
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