Ball-Point Pen

March 31 2012

Writing longhand.

A ball-point pen

on unlined paper,

which rests

on a cluttered table

expectantly.

I am a cartographer

piecing together his map

from fragments

of other journeys,

the myths 
of fantastical worlds

where sirens sing

sea monsters lurk.

The exhilarating freedom

of the blank page

is unconstrained

by deadlines

bottom lines

a story-line.

Because a poem

on its whirlwind trip

can dispense

with beginnings, middles, and endings.

Nowhere near a novel,

where the destination’s been fixed

before the mast first dips

below the horizon,

and wooden ships

over-winter in ice

disappear

in search of spices.

A poem

comes on a whim,

short, and self-contained

no need to resolve

or explain itself.

Beginning with a blank page

that patiently waits,

mute, receptive

non-judgmental.

As I chew on my pen

sip hot black coffee

take the dog for a walk.

The smooth flow of ink.

The pleasing friction

of the hard steel ball

on the porous surface.

Leaving a trail of words

I follow, reverse

follow again,

over the edge

of the known world.

Where there are no maps,

at least not yet.

Fiercely gripping my pen,

in the hope

it carries me safely back.