The Poet’s Curse


The muted hush of night,
the throb of silence.
The “hiss” that hurts.
The incessant pounding
of a dripping faucet.
In the relentless din,
a lone candle flickers.
Seeks to befriend,
quill in hand,
the poet?

Bleary eyed, ponders,
the die cast,
forever set?
Its sense relegated
mired in the mundane,
and yet, once
ever so infrequently
a fleeting truth.
Nevermore than a thread,
a straw in a stack,
searches, a thought,
a word, a sentence.

Deep into gloom,
hours before first light
brandy snifter still in hand,
music and spirit pour
over his ever-unquiet mind.

Humanity, bereft,
neither inclination
nor recrimination,
the here, the now,
fleeting moments.

Sadly, he proffers,
“They have no idea!
They just don’t know!”
And they don’t,
not a one.
The poet’s curse.

—Martin A. Bojan—


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