Vanished Verses

Vanished Verses …

 

How once they came so freely, inspiration was a sponge,

verses flowed from my pen to give clarity to my thoughts.

As if I’ve written poetry all my short life, then like a fire

fly on a hot summers night to vanish, never to return, the

god’s nectar emptied on this fool’s empty soul.

 

Yet to struggle with a white space before me, is never

something I took for granted, I knew that if I closed my

eyes and visualized the wonders that only mystics from

the past envisioned as they spoke to the stars, the galaxies,

the forest’s so enchanting, the spirits would appear and

speak to them. Very poetically I must say, as if they were

sovereign enough to display their gall to mortal man,

these mystics, these warm-blooded wanderers of the night.

 

How many struggling poets I wonder display this disdain

for their art, regardless of where it comes from. Often, I

feel like a channel exists between my thoughts and the

spirits who linger near me, a hand to touch out and penetrate

the fragile curtain between my world and theirs.

 

Then they disappear, yet come and go at their will,

antagonizing me, mocking me, forever tempting me with

a prickly boney finger to compose. So, I open yet another

blank page, stare at it with weak, tired eyes, begging it to

speak, open its heart to me, let me see what is between

those invisible empty lines.

 

Then like magic, as if, they’ve crossed over again, they

speak, capturing my fingertips, forcing me to tap at

keys memorized and worn with age as one word appears,

then another and life is now given a pause, I sigh,

I take a deep breath of relief, the gods have spoken

through me.

 

My perfection is blemished, I’m made to feel humble

again, forgotten by the poets from the past, found yet

again, a way to enter me, take control, seize my soul and

insist that my art is not dead, though I’m close to it, they

know, that’s why they linger in those dark places, enticing

me with their magic, knowing that I’m closer to death’s

door, to join them forevermore.

 

Vincent Moore       July 2017

Vincent Moore

Vincent Moore

Vincent Moore pens his thoughts about many things and has a style all his own. Sometimes, he parties with words excessively and it becomes necessary to publish quickly lest his work be lost in the dark corners of his room or his mind. Vincent will lead you into mysterious worlds that are strange yet somehow familiar, worlds that will leave you unsettled and breathless for more.

He was born and raised in Montreal Canada among the Irish, Brits, Italians and French. Point St Charles (commonly called The Point) was the Hell’s kitchen of Montreal. He played, cried, laughed and fought on the street corners, survival was an instinct and watching each others back important. Vincent left home at 17 to find his way in the world, failure and success he had plenty of. He studied the Arts and loved to draw and paint. Took acting lessons and envied those on the stage under the bright lights and hoped to some day become an actor, writer, playwright or painter. Vincent welcomes you to his world of mystery, fantasy and solitude. You can find a few of his writings in one of 3 books he's published.In Absinthia- In Melancholia and In Passionata.
Vincent Moore

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Vincent Moore

Vincent Moore pens his thoughts about many things and has a style all his own. Sometimes, he parties with words excessively and it becomes necessary to publish quickly lest his work be lost in the dark corners of his room or his mind. Vincent will lead you into mysterious worlds that are strange yet somehow familiar, worlds that will leave you unsettled and breathless for more. He was born and raised in Montreal Canada among the Irish, Brits, Italians and French. Point St Charles (commonly called The Point) was the Hell’s kitchen of Montreal. He played, cried, laughed and fought on the street corners, survival was an instinct and watching each others back important. Vincent left home at 17 to find his way in the world, failure and success he had plenty of. He studied the Arts and loved to draw and paint. Took acting lessons and envied those on the stage under the bright lights and hoped to some day become an actor, writer, playwright or painter. Vincent welcomes you to his world of mystery, fantasy and solitude. You can find a few of his writings in one of 3 books he's published. In Absinthia- In Melancholia and In Passionata.

4 thoughts on “Vanished Verses

  • July 18, 2018 at 6:04 PM
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    We all so relate Vincent, that tightrope we walk, those echoes from past writers that spark our soul and the internal struggle to hold them near. So profoundly personal yet in sharing, we all relate. Blood upon the page, truth so purely innate falls so eloquently upon that page. Great work Vincent. Kudos.

    Reply
  • July 20, 2018 at 12:13 AM
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    Vincent, as Tony said, I think all poets can relate to this. I often have a burning urge to write but sit there staring at a blank page…then suddenly, out of nowhere, or when least expected my muse takes control of my pen or keyboard and words just flow. Often when I start writing I have no idea what is going to form. I may have a title in my head and nothing else. Whether it is the spirits of poets past I have no idea, but there is some greater force working I feel. Loved your words.

    Reply
  • July 20, 2018 at 6:43 AM
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    What you say here John, I concur. I too have sat in front of my keyboard, blank page in front of me, stared at it, got up came back, left again to come back and start to type. I sometimes will start a stanza, delete it, start again. So y es my friend, I truly believe all writers of every mode go through what we do. But like you, when the calling comes, I sit there and type until the very last word given me. I went dry for six months and it’s only now I’m becoming inspired again to write. When my soul was emptied, there was nothing left for me to express, so I thought, my Muse didn’t think so. Keep writing John, you are a very talented and gifted writer.

    Reply

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