This is a poem I wrote last semester about the written word. In order to challenge myself (because I intentionally like making my life difficult), I chose to write a sestina poem, where the last word of each line is repeated in each stanza but in a different order. It's hard to explain, but once you look at the poem, you'll see what I mean. The hardest part of this type of poem is making the word fit at the end of the sentence in a believable way.
Writing in the
Dark
It’s
always at the beginning of the night
that
his thoughts begin to run wild and words
come
more easily, flowing from hand to pen.
He
has tried to write in the morning but there is no silence.
There
are too many demanding noises, too much bright light
and
so it is in darkness that he always writes.
On
his brand new computer, the man writes,
his
fingers slipping on the yet unused keys in the dark of night.
The
shadows are strong this evening, they are stealing the light,
or
are they the demons of his past come to haunt his words?
He
listens. For something. For anything. But there is only silence.
The
man closes his computer and grabs a pen.
Beautifully
constructed, trusty, bronze, perfect grip, his pen
has
never failed him when he writes.
He
likes the sound of pen on paper in the silence.
It
seems as if hours have passed in the night,
and
still he has not written a single word.
Looking
at the clock, it is still several hours ‘til there is light.
His
lined notepad glares blankly at him in the dull light.
How
long has he been holding this pen?
How
long has he been pretending that the words
have
been coming to him? That he actually writes?
For
months, he has been staring out the window at night,
but
it is hard to pretend when alone and in silence.
It
is hard to pretend when there is too much
silence.
The
man has never feared the light,
but
now he fears he may run out of night.
His
fingers firmly grip his barely-used pen,
hoping
to squeeze out any inspiration to write.
All
the man wants are beautiful words.
Unexpectedly
there’s a spark and they come to him – the words.
The
ones he has been waiting for all his life in silence.
The
ink flows onto the paper, the sound is soothing. He writes
for
once unconcerned about the upcoming daylight.
Nothing
can stop the man and his pen.
He
knows it will be the first time he writes beyond the night.
As
the man writes his precious words,
he
no longer fears the night, nor its companion, silence.
He
sees himself in a new light: a writer; he is his pen.
