And that would be the start of a poem a lot better than the one you’re about to read, but the summer saps my creativity and soul, and I end up writing vapid nonsense to prompts for which I ought to be wittier. It’s kind of creepy.
Last month, The Scribblers creative writing society launched their first book of creative writing, produced in printed, ring-bound form (like any university collection) by the president and English Lit student, based on the prompt The Lake. I thought I’d shared my poem in the collection here.
Into the Lake
Churlish white-grey, wave upon wave
Above her crest and contorted shape
Laps away the life she knew,
Replaced with a deathly show.
Organs melt and boil and bubble, though
Pressure first swells her ears,
Then the petty nonsense gurgles;
Oxygen is a forgotten resource.
The mind leaves little but an inventory
Of life as she drops from sanity.
A single moss-plant by her right,
That arm in green might catch her side,
Yet, they meet and dance and part as if
The weed never existed. Refraction.
Ever-intrepid hands climb the non-existent rope,
Where safety slips, threatens, teases,
And as she downward dips, questions
Of morality flit and forget to float –
Once, perhaps, it bailed her out;
Broken, now it only descends with her,
Descends, transcends and bends the ether
‘Tween consciousness and nullity;
Turn the inner voice away, and
The outer streams far more sense to the deep.
Sight has nothing more than glass
To offer the erstwhile traveller. Glass,
The ever-distorting foe –
Who turns the knife into a rose,
The fist into a palm.
Never mind the hue of blood under her nails –
The water dyes every inch
Blue, like the plant-unlife is blue, unwanted.
One bubble, maybe two, as passing payment,
Then – nothing, and silence, sweet head, weeps.
Maudlin and black now the waves lap;
Her soul rises higher – her body fades back
To depths and the gloom beyond eyelids closed,
In the pit, that lake, morose.