[Photo Credit: Thomas Chatterton in His Garret]
inkpots
used to uncover the fading word
a second or more to gather the instant
to reminisce to reflect to feel to sense
to touch to hold the new breath
exhaling life at its worst
inhaling poetry
pre-natal
willed
pure
to surpass it all again and again
I had the privilege to contribute with my “inkpots” – together with two other poems, to the April 2015 issue of The Year of the Poet, a monthly book series published by Inner Child Press, Ltd. While I was writing down my words, I couldn’t shake off the image of the protagonist in one of my most favorite German short stories: a sickly writer in an ice cold tiny flat who relies on his last submitted work, a novelette, to help his wife and himself survive a little longer. I remember how thankful I felt throughout my processing of the three poems: thankful for my day job, that is. I still do. Can you imagine what would become of me, if I, too, was forced to make a living from selling my literary writings?
hülyaswritings 