Portina
Freed now from the land of the dark enslaved words I had written. The night had begun as I wandered my path without a sense of where to go. The words against my back scrambling to follow, to engage my tired self. No, I turned around and addressed them, be gone with your cursed ways. I can no longer write you into my prose. My eyes now staring at them with a heated defense of this need to be free. To no longer ache from despair from their meaning. Send them to heaven I thought, as a few came closer. Their curves of desire reaching out to touch mine. To speak through me as no others can. The longing to return the pen to its owner rose within each words feeble attempt to engage me.
No I screamed, give me peace. Bury yourselves, quiet your urge to be known. Find an oasis of ink to lounge within or I will.
It was then I knew my destination. A far off corner of the world with a big black pool. Sultry in name, Portina. There…exists a place for extraction of new words, new meanings. A berth the freed can reach their hands into and touch. Touch is a word with a new meaning. Unknown until now. Procured by immersion. Portina exists in the same way everything does when you notice the light. As I enter I’m reminded about a poem I wrote.
A crushed lemon in the form of a seed.
Planted I grew into a stalk of wheat.
To touch the air this way to meet.
A gentle form thus now complete.
In time to stand between broad light.
I bend and feel the earth.
A grasp that’s firm and true I try.
In steadfast waves of mirth am I.
In time I too may bend and break.
Becoming something new.
The time of day into the night.
Yet, still my aim stays true.
So when the sleeve of wheat is changed.
Into another worth.
Then say another part is born.
Upon this gentle earth.
(I suppose this was written because sometimes writers want to disengage from the known aspects of words. Maybe the current ones are so heavy and it’s long past the need to express them. Escaping words that cling to an existence they themselves are clinging to is a two pronged endeavor, of course. This writing is about retrieving new words, but it’s really also about the hard work of being able to.
Mostly I’d like my prose to create thoughts that are for the individual reading them a sort of inspiration, something personal to themselves.)