By Samir Georges
Truth be told, I never meant to write. I always hoped to be complete, without the need for meaning outside of myself, for the approval of my peers. Such that I often wondered what is it that so compelled my hand to the pen, what brought my pen to the paper, what cast my soul into the ink.
It is in the mire of fanciful musings that I found myself enraptured with a quest. A pursuit of clarity, an urge to define the ichor of life as I defined my past against the setting sun. Perhaps to write is to define. Even in the haphazard windings of poetry I found the peace of distinction; I cast a moment of myself against the page as mother tree cast my leaf into the wind. And so the leaf is defined, unfettered and bemused by the gentle breath that carries it to the soil of yesterday.
And having writ, I am as the wine maker and you the patron aside the bar. You who has found my words, you who has found the wine glass that nourished your soul. Let us share this drink together then, I the past that has come to fill your cup, you the lips that feed the flames of youth.
For me, perhaps for you, a poem is the birth and death of a moment from my toil. Such that when I look upon this collection of pages I see fragments of my soul that when stitched together may yet one day draw me whole.
Perhaps it is a moot question, why the moth is drawn to the flame, why I grow, why I seek your approval, stranger who’s eyes I’ve snared. Yet here I am, moth all the same. I write because I must, as the bud is inclined to bloom. So too is the cast of my soul, like a cloak, inclined to rest naked on my shoulders.
Just as there is certainty in these words having been writ, there is the certainty of distinction all about me. There is a truth, as elusive as it may be, that sets our world dancing with the sun, that sets the rhythm to my heart beat. There is a truth that has birthed me, and yet contains me. And I know, with every fibre of my being, I know that same truth propels the flame upward, guides the moth forwards and the tree windward, the leaf downward. We have sent men to the reaches of our sight, cast them to the moon as we cast our eyes to the heavens in search of this truth. Is it any wonder then, that I, here upon this rock, cast my attention inwards, searching for reflections of this skyward truth? Is it any wonder then, that for all my wistful answers and flowering words I find the labyrinth within me as unabated as the depthless sky itself?
We write to express, we express because we are defined against the backdrop of darkness and the certainty of existence that frame us like the borders of this page. And we but mimic our surroundings, finding distinction within ourselves so that we, we who must dip the pen in the ether of existence, we like the painter, singer, sculptor and musician, like all things human, draw the strings that compose this yarn. We like the moth, draw the flame that frames our wings. And oh what beauty is this, that I am writ but once, in poetry as in flame.
So my pen comes to its needed rest having threaded this leaf from mother tree, I cast it to the winds and breathe a lighter, peaceful breath. So I have written and will write again, as long as I dance around the sun there will yet be poetry in me, leaves to grow and shed with the passing of the seasons. And this truth in me shall fan these flames, with endless tinder for this ending page.
Adieu, my Poetryhood.
(Samir Georges is the author of the great poetry book “As I Write These Words” which is available online – take a peak into his poetic journey through the poems he inscribes to the world)