“Pick up thy pen!” quoth dear Paul,
(He’s said it before, and he’ll say it again),
a droll Irishman.

His mission–
to nurture that itch
the world ’round
to be found
in all would-be poets’
writing hand skin.

“Pick up thy pen!”
Yes, that’s what he said,
and write whate’er shall come out,
some darn thing,
which, once you are done,
resembles a poem.

Write of prefix and suffix
and ethics
(or was that excess?)
in Sussex,
where once fought a forbear
(or rather, an uncle thereof)
to storied success. . .

Fast forward,
with flourish
of inked ball-pen roll,
oh, some odd, thousand years,

and just try, as you write,
to make sense
of the strange world there–

of rock in the car,
fish swimming by ship,
or pain in the nape,
or the wrath in the thaw
of an enraged Eiswein grape.

Write of the glare,
that’s finagled its way
to shine gold
on the silvering tress
of a head
still mourning a death,
eye gaze fast-fixed
on the autumn sunset,

and of the hand
that’s aching to out,
smooth and wise as the Tao,
the sick kiss’s history,
of the hand’s arm, still alive,
here and now,
stony-tensed up in agony,
for, though well it recalls,
and has writ many words,
yea, even in verse,
it hovers, quite stumped,
for doesn’t know how.

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2 Responses to ‘PICK UP THY PEN!” QUOTH PAUL

  1. Wow wow wow. I’ve only read this once, out loud to myself in my kitchen still in my dressing gown. Wow wow wow

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