Unwritten Poems

Tree on a moraine hill under a full moon, Hirzel, Switzerland — Image by © Stefan

The real poets are always silent.
They can’t let their poems go.

They worship the moon,
night after night,

letting the silver play alchemy
with their hearts.

Paring thoughts into lines,
they gut, then decapitate reason,

keeping at it all night long,
until morning ends their vigil.

Moon to moon,
poets walk a thread-less bridge.

On moonless nights,
what remains is memory of trying,

the terror of watching words
grow misshapen wings.

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3 Responses to Unwritten Poems

  1. Aswathy November 7, 2012 at 12:38 pm #

    That sounds like a very honest thought dear Poet! 🙂

    • Soni Somarajan November 8, 2012 at 9:15 am #

      Looks like it, Aswathy! Thx for coming by!

  2. sulakshana November 26, 2012 at 5:04 pm #

    all too familiar…my poems echo through my mind but am always reluctant to pen them down…

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