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
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
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.