Within an inkwell’s heart interred:
The answer to my sorrow.
If only I should dare ask
To have it for my own.
And yet, I have allowed each day
To bloom into its ‘morrow
Until the page grew overcast,
Unwilling to atone
For misspent truths
For depths unfound;
And in its blank reproach
My doleful muse is bound.
*
vic briggs 
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The shackles are free in the image. And so words will always be. They return, as now. Scary though when doubts assail and we wonder if there will ever be more to come. And then they do.x
I love the the connection you made between image and verse, and perhaps unconsciously I have chosen the image in hope that my own muse will soon be unshackled – or perhaps the image chose me. Thank you for your kind words. They struck a cord.
Awesome
Thank you x
You are welcome sweetie x
Indeed, there is hope in that inkwell, when we dip into it and make a storm on the page! Nice piece–enjoyed the wordplay and paper imagery, as well as the weather/nature word choices.
Thank you, Leigh. As writers – whether of poetry or prose – we all experience the plight of the empty inkwell at some point or other. I had made a promise that I would endeavour to always let my muse find me hard at work, whenever she deigns to visit.
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HATFM
(((Awhoooo)))
Ah yes… that about sums up how I feel. Thank you for the howl 🙂
I have read many poetic descriptions of the dreaded drought but this tops the lot of them. Soulfully and euphoniously poured to the page and greatly appreciated by this reader.
Dear Mike, you leave me quite speechless. I am touched. Thank you.
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Remember the classic Morecambe and Wise musical sketch where Eric says, ‘I’m playing all the right notes, but not necessarily in the right order’. So it is with words.
Great poem, Vic.
Ah yes, Eric and Ernie, the best-loved double-act that Britain has ever produced, bar perhaps Laurie and Fry in more recent years. An evokative association. I am certain to return to it again. Thank you, Chris.
It struck me that an inkwell can ‘bloom’, having had some limited experience with them. You knock one over and the ink will run, but as it is absorbed by the thick vellum, it ‘blooms’ like a flower, however Rorshachian(sp?) it may be. Good stuff, bud.
The imagery brings to mind ice-flowers “blooming” on windows in winter. I think ink patterns would create a similar feel. Thank you for the simile – may resort to it in the future.
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Blooms of ink, words of reflections, that’s /vic briggs/
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