The Empty Page [poem]

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there are some who will say
(in a desolate way)
there is nothing more intimidating
liquid thoughts eliminating
undermining self
than a blank new sheet of paper
which is laughing in your face
without the smallest trace of
mercy in its woven empty space

I beg to differ (if I may)
for when I look at
such a thing
a massive range
of winged and soaring
creatures with a
thesaurus full-featured
who will sing their
perfect-worded songs
invade my world

for when I see an empty page
I see a mirror’s shining ways
but not one which reflects my face
a looking-glass without a trace of
selffulness to cloud the surface
shining out portentously
with all the riches there will be
engraved upon that velour leaf

I see red carpets being unrolled
an ornate lectern made of gold
a tightly-tensioned unsprung coil
a shining lamp with burning oil
a solid volume, leather-bound,
etched with words: “Some Stars I Found”
a plume and ink of ochre hue
in blood red matching what I do
for every word which is produced
is from my veins and arteries loosed!
I see a thin horizon streaked
across a vast and wave-lapped beach
where thousand-coloured fish will play
on coral reefs with castaways
I see some maidens dancing over
hills and fire and four-leafed clover
flowing skirts, hair streaming free,
they give their love so effortlessly
I see a raven, tail untouched,
his claws a tarnished ring do clutch
“It’s only tainted from the wind
he caws, as fluted acronyms
float down beneath his feather-beat
expand themselves
to words complete
upon the page
which caused
some other soul
that block
but now
I’m writing

© 2011, Alan Morrison

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