The Writer and the Blood Inked Quil
The Writer and the Blood Inked Quill
By: Adam M. Snow
The candle flickered by a passing gentle breeze;
My quill dries up leaving not I at ease.
My words upon page now left to hang.
A reader's disappointment, now a writer's pang.
Misery held me as time stood still,
My heart has fallen because my mind is ill.
I stare at blank page as all words elude me,
I can't help to wonder, 'How could this be? '
Torment follows as night falls victim to dread;
My ink once black now turns blood red.
I wrote my soul upon each page,
As time ticks by with every age.
The word itself scream an agony scream;
I, the writer without a dream.
But what bedevils myself to write,
Elude me once more with the fall of night.
My nightly whimper comes with a toll,
My life upon the page, now bearing my soul.
poem by Adam M. Snow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
A Blank Page Blues
I know we have all done it,
sat in front of a pristine white sheet of paper
and got ready to write something down,
and then we are confronted
with the blank page blues.
The words of inspiration
then scurry and hide away.
You are left with pen in hand,
scratching your head
wondering what to say.
There is no cure for this syndrome;
writers get it all the time.
Some call it a writer’s block,
when nothing comes into your head.
You sit in front of a blank page.
You know what you want to write,
then someone disturbs you
and the words disappear out of sight.
How many times have we had that?
We sit down to write our masterpiece
and the telephone rings,
or someone shouts your dinner is getting cold.
You feel like screaming,
but you take it on the chin.
You lay down your pen,
answer the phone or have your dinner,
and when you come back,
the blank page confronts you.
Still you cannot write anything on it.
You stare at it for hours,
until finally you get tired
and journey off to bed.
Hoping and hoping tomorrow
a little peace, it will bring
and your words on that blank page
will really begin to sing.
10 May 2008
poem by David Harris
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Will The Words Come Back?
Words slip off our pen
like warm butter off a knife.
They fall in unison across the page
with everything we write.
Then one day the words don’t flow
in unison like they used to before.
They have no rhythm within them
and just become no more than words.
We look at what we’ve written
and there is no bounce in them.
The words become no more than words
once written by a creative hand.
There is no meaning in what they say
they have no heart anymore.
They are just words written on a page
with no rhyme or reason for them being there.
Some call it a writer’s block;
others call it stagnation of the mind.
The creative juices fall away to nothing,
no spark to be kindled,
no emotions to be released,
no protests to be made,
no stories to be assembled
like a jigsaw in your mind.
Just an empty pen with words
that don’t make sense anymore.
Struggles without feeling,
ideas leading nowhere
on a spiralling downward turn.
You are no longer a writer,
your creativity is gone
and the only question you have,
will the words come came back?
13 July 2009
poem by David Harris
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Ode to a Blank Page
Ode to a blank page
It’s blue seemingly thin lines flying across the page
Each producing a small space to place your thoughts on
Next lies the taunting red margin
Baring how sparsely you’ve done
You can strike the page with a single blow
Leaving a mark that did no good
Ode to a blank page
Why do you stare?
Taunting and shrieking in my ear
Emptiness fills the page
The blanks intimidate even the strong
How strong it is
To give a cut even to the toughest skin
Ode to a blank page
You know I’m jealous
How I despise all your characteristics
poem by Rachele ...duhh
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Brief Statement on the Snow Leopard
Let it be known that on page 12 where the
description of the snow leopard begins, an
egregious error was made in its description.
In no way does a snow leopard resemble all
the demons of hell. It seems that a catatonic
fear set in upon seeing the snow leopard for the
first time, which results in a rather inaccurate
description. Also, on page 43 there is a long pause followed by a
blood-curdling scream. What follows is an attempt to
describe the gurgling sound of copious amounts of
splashing blood. On page 67, a certain shlick noise
is mentioned, this is the sound of a can of
cheap beer being opened, as the hunter, much later
back at the lodge, found it necessary to consume a
quantity of said beverage when it was finally discovered that
he had completely lost the rest of his hunting party in
the bush. That was a completely different adventure, which
won't be elaborated on here, but let it suffice to say
that his ill-fitting shorts were riding up
in the crotch, which probably led to his finger
grazing ever so gently the trigger of his elephant
rifle, causing him to shoot himself almost nearly in the
brain. On page 69, when the aardvark is introduced,
the reader may wish to access certain reference
books in order to reveal its unlikely habitat
in its entirety. The likelihood of sighting an aardvark
atop such a mountainous peak was merely used
to lend page 70 a certain ambiance of horror.
If the stream-of-consciousness effect
which was employed on page 78 was a hindrance to the
narrative, the reader may inser these words
in place of the aforementioned passage, ...god-
damned barnacles, wherever you go they're all over me!
Perhaps it should also be mentioned
that the incessant drumming which begins on
page 112 is not foreshadowing, but if the reader
would like, it could serve to explain the absence
of any dialogue for the rest of the following chapters.
poem by Larry Sawyer
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Through the Eyes of the Untold Lore
Through these stained eyes, dark is all I see
yet I try to live, believing this is me.
But all I could do is place my heart on a page,
and watch it rot away with every age.
All I am through your eyes is a ghost,
whom you don't dare miss the most.
All you are through my eyes, is hopelessness;
but my words I write are my distress.
Peaking through my once soulless muse,
as my heart lies victim to your solemn abuse.
I live to be your puppet, nothing more
but I am a writer of many lore.
And as I dare write with missing heart,
it is with you whom my stories start.
poem by Adam M. Snow
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The Young Letter Writer
Dear Sir, Dear Madam, or Dear Friend,
With ease are written at the top;
When those two happy words are penned,
A youthful writer oft will stop,
And bite his pen, and lift his eyes
As if he thinks to find in air
The wished-for following words, or tries
To fix his thoughts by fixëd stare.
But haply all in vain-the next
Two words may be so long before
They'll come, the writer, sore perplext,
Gives in despair the matter o'er;
And when maturer age he sees
With ready pen so swift inditing,
With envy he beholds the ease
Of long-accustomed letter-writing.
Courage, young friend; the time may be
When you attain maturer age,
Some young as you are now may see
You with like ease glide down a page.
Even then when you, to years a debtor,
In varied phrase your meanings wrap,
The welcomest words in all your letter
May be those two kind words at top.
poem by Charles Lamb
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When I write, the first blank page, or any blank page, means nothing to me. What means something is a page that has been filled with words.
quote by Guillermo Cabrera Infante
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Poet's Conference
Take away the quill pen,
Or the clacking of the keys
Of the hostile kissing
Of the keyboard
And there will be the manifests
Of the tremors and stammers
Of dysgraphic woes.
Take away the paper
Unsullied and immaculate
Without the stains of denouement
And there will be blood
And tears spilled
In an aposiopesis
Like the ink on every
Ethereal page.
Take away the guise
Of a poet or a writer,
Manqué or laureate,
The paradoxes, the metaphors,
The lyric lines that metamorphose
The fiendish solace beneath
The tombstones of the tacit
Written words
And there will rise
Fulminating the sunrise:
Agony,
Anguish,
Despair,
Desolate,
Morose,
Remorse,
Defeat,
Blackly,
Heavily,
Desperately,
Disembogued rivers.
poem by Norman Santos
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Home Alone Happy Without Working Computer
Home alone happy without working computer
I take my pen in hand
And slowly write these words –
Let the world click and paste and post
I am out of it for now-
I have before me an evening of any book I like
Of any page I want to write
-
Peace of Mind is one place of attention at a time-
Here weighing each word as I write
I am at home with my inner self-
I hear my own thoughts
I correct them at my own pace.
So many words and so many pages
Have been written in my life-
Now in this one
I am wholly at home
Peaceful, quiet happy
Each word a small blessing
As I write it-
This is the only poem I know
The only page I see
The only place of attention
I give myself and my soul to
At this moment.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Book Of Days
Your life is as a book
Written on the pages are the weeks
For you would give anything to take just one look
Into the next chapter, the next page
Each page is a new thought, a new dream
Sometimes it takes so long to pass that page
And sometimes nothing is as it seams
For you know you can not go ahead or back
You know you are where you are
You know you can't change that
As you read page to page, so near to fear
You write the chapters as you go, with each turn
Each turn, each move changes what's to come
And you know each moment could be the last
With this in mind you go so mumb
So numb to the touch, to the thought
You turn page after page
until you reach the 'end'
And only then, you are freed from the title
The title that has kept your thoughts bound, and tight
You turn the pages one by one
You take the pain, take the joy
Until you are done
And your story becomes another on the shelf of eternity
(1/24/2008)
poem by Bethany Maxwell
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For Your Attention....
have a little time
to this page
it used to be a blank page
an emptiness, a void, a stare
it is calling for attention
its silence like roots call for more depths
it is not the normal page
that you open and leave
with your wet fingers
and dry tongue
listen with your eyes
let your ears see
this is this poem that perhaps
may not make you sleep....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Blank Page
Blank page leave me be!
Blank page please stop taunting me,
reminding me of what I have failed to do.
Oh how I long to fill you,
to take up your very last line
with creative, riveting lyrics of mine.
Blank page stop harassing me!
I wish to show you my thoughts,
desires, emotions and all.
How difficult it is to answer your call.
Blank page how sweetly you whisper
tempting my pen to caress your paper.
I immaturely expect the verses to flow
then I realize that my thoughts are much too slow.
Blank page so often you defeat me
teasing and challenging until hours later
all that is left is the tiny dot
where my pen merely touched your paper.
poem by Shaqueena Celestin
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So Young
In the misery dictionary
Page after page after page
In the misery dictionary
Page after page
Where theres life theres gotta be hope
And where theres a will theres a way
One mans in is anothers out
I gotta get out today
Where theres life theres gotta be hope
And where theres a will theres a way
Amid divisions youre so low
You know I gotta get out today
In the misery dictionary
Page after page after page
In the misery dictionary
Page after page
And where theres a will theres a way
song performed by by Stone Roses
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Reader or writer
If you are a reader or a writer.
You should be a positive thinker.
You are more like a scientist observer.
Try to be an exact experimenter.
Nothing is too crazy to put on paper.
If you are a reader or a writer.
The reader is a wonderful dreamer.
The writer is a sincere worker.
Its lovely that both can be each other.
If you are a reader or a writer.
You should never say never.
So don't leave behind a book marker.
Make sure you have a word sharpener.
Tenacity Is The Father Of Invention!
The empty page stared back at me devoid of expectation!
It held no hope, no ecstasy, no present inspiration!
Like snow it froze my very soul as if love never lived...
As if the Lord had no control to offer me this gift!
The gift of thoughts and wondrous words can conquer every doubt!
That’s why, as men, we fly like birds in planes that dart about!
It’s why we dive, like whales below, in silver submarines!
It’s why we strive to learn and know and why we make machines!
It’s why we walked upon the moon and then used all our wisdom
To go, by probes, past this balloon to cross our solar system!
Mankind, inspired, will not cease from universal quest!
He spurns contentment, even peace, for he must do his best!
So, empty page, I spurn your spite! No writer’s block have I!
Behold this poem that I write inspired by your sigh!
poem by Denis Martindale
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Paperback Writer
(LennonMcCartney)
Paperback writer
Dear Sir or Madam, will you read my book?
It took me years to write, will you take a look?
It's based on a novel by a man named Lear
And I need a job, so I want to be a paperback writer
Paperback writer
It's the dirty story of a dirty man
And his clinging wife doesn't understand
His son is working for the Daily Mail
It's a steady job but he wants to be a paperback writer
Paperback writer
Paperback writer
It's a thousand pages, give or take a few
I'll be writing more in a week or two
I can make it longer if you like the style
I can change it round and I want to be a paperback writer
Paperback writer
If you really like it you can have the rights
It could make a million for you overnight
If you must return it, you can send it here
But I need a break and I want to be a paperback writer
Paperback writer
Paperback writer
Paperback writer, paperback writer
Paperback writer, paperback writer
Paperback writer, paperback writer
Paperback writer, paperback writer (fade out)
song performed by by Paul McCartney
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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So Young
In the misery dictionary
Page after page after page
In the misery dictionary
Page after page
Where there's life there's gotta be hope
And where there's a will there's a way
One man's in is another's out
I gotta get out today
Where there's life there's gotta be hope
And where there's a will there's a way
Amid divisions you're so low
You know I gotta get out today
In the misery dictionary
Page after page after page
In the misery dictionary
Page after page
And where there's a will there's a way
song performed by by The Stone Roses from Garage Flower
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I do like to work on a Marvel method, so if I've got the opportunity, and the writer is happy to do it, I like to have a writer detail what happens on a page, but not saying what happens in every scene.
quote by David Lloyd
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Tabula Rasa
this is a blank wall
or as you wish it, this could be a blank page,
or you may consider this
a blank mind of a child and
you will be teaching him
some things for the first time,
go, scroll, and find something,
do you remember now, why the child is still in pain?
why the walls are stronger? why the blank page still have stains
of blood in there?
some sad memories that refuse to leave?
don't lose hope, there are still more blank spaces of the mind
imagine it to be some kind of a sky
now, put the stars and the moon, and try wishing
someth ing nice and beautiful
like a boat filled with flowers and some light and then silently it sails
on a very peaceful sea like a fine silky cloth covering the dining table
to the place that you always dream to live
forever.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Writer's Block!
Yes, these two words came into mind...
Wordpad opened again,
New Rich True Format Document,
Followed by Arial ten...
No text displayed as I perused,
The cursor blinking still...
In readiness for brand new words
My thoughts were yet to spill...
I typed the title, first thing done,
Two line gaps then the verse...
With not a word to lead the way,
It couldn't get much worse...
But then I thought, I'll add my name
And copyright as well,
Then type the date, as if to claim
There's nothing left to tell...
The poem stands, no words at all,
To summarise the theme,
As if the empty heart and mind
Had nothing there to dream...
But then I thought, that's such a waste!
I'll let the reader know,
That even nothing has its place
Before the words can flow...
And so, from nothing came these rhymes,
These thoughts upon a page,
Or PC screen each time I type
To reach another stage...
Who knows? The poem I write next
Could be a great success,
That may grant tremendous insight,
Some cherished happiness...
So Writer's Block, I've beaten you!
I've conquered every doubt!
God gave me something that's brand new
And now I've typed it out!
Denis Martindale, copyright, September 2012.
poem by Denis Martindale
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