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“Other Worlds They have not Lived” 

Writers, and poets, just like musicians
feel they have the pulse of things,
it’s an arrogance that declares
I know, so much more than you,
I know of such things,
so much better than you.

I have lived more of a life,
I have a deeper capacity to feel. 

The reader watches
the dance, and thinks -
no, no you don’t 
know better than I, 
nor would you 
ever want to.

There is a lightness 
in the limerick
a joie de vivre
innocent, 
macabre or satire,
but underneath 
the undertow 
there rises more 
mysterious darker things
that lift you up towards
some luminocity, even if 
one exists stagnant 
in the in-between -
their words like lines cast,
make your heart swell
and like an ocean they
pull you back in.

You'd gladly drown
in their verbosity.

To write the story
one must live,

to write the story
one must read,

to read,
one must concede,

there are other worlds
one has never lived,

nor will ever live.

(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)




“While he writes, 
I feel
as if he 
is drawing me; 
or not drawing me, 
drawing on me--
drawing on my skin--

not with the pencil he is using, 
but with an old-fashioned goose pen, 
and not with the quill end 
but with the feather end. 
As if hundreds of butterflies 
have settled all over my face, 
and are softly opening 
and closing their wings.

But underneath 
that is another feeling, 
a feeling of being 
wide-eyed awake 
and watchful. 
It's like being 
wakened suddenly 
in the middle of the night, 
by a hand over your face, 
and you sit up 
with your heart going fast, 
and no one is there. 
And underneath that 
is another feeling still, 
a feeling 
like being torn open; 
not like a body of flesh, 
it is not painful as such, 
but like a peach; 
and not even torn open, 
but ripe and splitting open 
of its own accord.

And inside the peach 
there's a stone.”
("Alias Grace"/Margaret Atwood)
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