Phrases flock in a blue pocket book
trailing the rushed rhythm of painted feet
words walk past the morning light
boarding a train too slow a match
for the beast, the beating heart
stilled solely by ink-stained verse
rising from its paper fold, like butterflies
across the blue soaked sky.
You know, I’m often scribbling away, gasping at the discovery of words that have set my heart aflutter. And these are often penned in curious places, strewn among hardbound companions or placed in corners I will not discover for days, years even. While there is much joy in that, I’m tempted today to build a new chamber, right here, to preserve them. So that they may lie a little closer, within reach for you and me.
We begin then with her:
…Is there then a world
where I rule absolutely on fate?
A time I bind with chains of signs?
An existence become endless at my bidding?
The joy of writing.
The power of preserving.
Revenge of a mortal hand.
– from ‘The Joy of Writing’ by Wislawa Szymborska