Worlds in Ink: A Poem and Manifesto
I traverse worlds in ink,
worlds composed of indigo blue and bleeding red
or standard black or gleaming graphite gray.
Worlds composed of lines that dance
upon the clouds and frolic while my hands scamper
for a chance to jot them down. A world of
foam and gleaming gold, a chariot of fire,
a moonlit sheepfold. Night breeze in the grass,
ripples of silver, the bellow of the shepherd’s horn
ringing across a field of ripe summer corn.
A world on a distant isle of time and space,
when the universe has opened for the human race,
and the starships fly between meteoroids
and their blasters shoot sparks into the void.
The stars in my eyes. Cosmic wind in my hair. Distant moons
reverberate to fifties tunes and the clack of heels
on department store floors. In the kitchen
a housewife is cooking, making spaghetti and meatballs
for her brood and the husband who walks in the door
to give her a kiss — “Honey, what did I miss?”
A world where, long ago, two armies engaged
on a sandy plain. The victory won, the victors proclaimed,
a king strode across the field. And the stinking corpses,
without name, became a fetid stench that rose
and flew in shame.
Leagues before that, to a quiet world,
a world unturned, where people who bore me
upon their shoulders and upon their back,
though they did not know,
sat bathed in a fire’s golden glow. And laughed
and tore at the bone, the cavebear’s marrow
feeding the flames.
Did they write on the walls? Leave their names?
Traverse worlds, borne on sails
or rock dust? Outshine me?
Determine me? Envision me?
As a writer, the power of imagination is incredibly important to me. I need my imagination so that I can envision scenes beyond my own life.
As a child, I spent most of my time in my own head. I had such vivid daydreams that I’d act them out. I loved imaginative play. It’s not a surprise that today, I love roleplaying games!
Writing provided an outlet for my imagination. Throughout my life, I’ve suffered from various mental health issues, including some that may well have been or are being exacerbated by an overly active imagination. I can only imagine how much worse off I would be if I hadn’t discovered a passion for writing. It is my saving grace: it keeps me sane. This poem is a pale reflection of the things I feel about writing and imagination and poetry, but it’s my effort.
Thank you for reading! Let me know what you thought in the comments.
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