simmers a soup of leftovers
whilst he searches for the right paper
without lines
without margins
he settles down to scratch his creative itch
with a yellowing finger
he hesitates at the edge
scrawling barren furrows
in turquoise ink
he loses a knife to the floor
adding salt
he shuffles
cooling his soup in the vowels of a breath
making steam
which hovers above the table
like mist over water
until rivulets of purple jewels
trickle from his eyes
blurring his vision of reality
the clock is ticking but he must wait
for the comfort of soup in his belly
for the whisper of words on the page
Yes, we are all deaf – waiting to hear something worth writing about.
pardon?
this was a bit of a cheat as I wrote it a long time ago but I have amended it for this exercise – I think the workshops are a great opportunity to go back to a poem and try it again – thanks Robbie for posting ideas – also introduces me to poets I have never heard of
Love the idea. Erm… I’m wondering about losing three lines – from the middle! Perhaps jumping from ‘turquoise ink’ to ‘cooling his soup’ ?