When The Poem Arrives
written by: Karima Hoisan
I have felt it coming for days…
and yet…
not a word has been put down,
because it’s still on its way.
Whatever it is,
my muse wants to say;
there is no hurrying that,
or rushing to the end.
No, I am the spectator here,
wondering when it will begin,
wondering when I will be called in…
to just serve as the
stenographer,
the photographer,
the willing midwife to a verse
that wants to be born,
wants to set those thoughts down
in ink and print,
in rhythm and rhyme.
I’m so ready for…
when the poem arrives.
Whatever is needed of me.
I’m here, I will do it;
just knock and let me know.
I’m in the other room,
but aware that, when it’s my turn,
when my time has come,
to scribble it out
and save it before it fades…
I am ready, to open wide the door.
I am always ready…but patient,
as these moments can’t be arranged
are not in my control.
When a poem is coming…
stop thinking, stop pondering
It’s not important what might be written.
I just know,
it will flow through me, when it gets here,
and in the end,
it will be just want I wanted to say.
I am the lover bathed and perfumed,
because when it arrives at my door,
when it knocks, I come running…
the loving poet here and now,
to attend all its needs.
I make sure this thought is not lost,
on some foggy side-road,
lost in the trivia of eat, work and sleep.
I give it a candle-light welcome,
arms stretched out to receive
and then…take it by the hand
roll it through my mind,
until my fingers dance
and write it all down from,
that special focused place,
of poetry and trance.
Because, when the poem arrives…
I am always ready.
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