Chrysalis unfolded
Finally.
After thirty years,
I came out.
Not sexuality in awkward question,
It was honesty.
I approached the silent bookstand,
The one I shied from for so long,
Its sign may as well have read,
“Real Poets.”
For sad little boy inside,
Shy and needy of approval,
Stomped his feet and screamed,
I am not a poet!
I’m not!
I’m not!
Behind his insecure derriere,
Grew a hungry spirit there,
For many years it presented,
Scared little boy resented,
To help it grow.
Today at last my spirit emerged,
As chrysalis unfolded,
Snatched a book,
Snatched a look,
Fed its starving soul.
How open,
How raw,
How incisive,
How deftly these giants captured,
The essence of their prey.
The boy was crying.
"I cannot show myself so bare,"
"I might be found wanting,"
"I may not so favourably
Compare."
My mouth slowly fell open,
Awareness blasted through,
My words so neatly manicured,
So careful not to dare,
So safely contrived,
Lest they not so favourably
Compare.
Works I thought my soul revealed,
Were instead desperate shield,
A new resolve steeled my grasp,
To write in truth, in truth be damned!
Copyright Pierre Nunns
No comments:
Post a Comment