Stones Thrown as the Crow Flies


midnight had crawled

out of his head leaving the

early hours to do their work,

fingers manipulate

keyboard screen aglow

in transcript of the mind,

his patience a short tether

to the excitement of creation,

as if dawn light brought revelation

a first fledged sun of

the day,

radiated warmth

mist lifting,

stimulants left aside

progressing in a way he knew best,

hunching slightly,

a splinter of memory

curdled color at the corner

of his eye,

tear appeared,

but only of tiredness,

not happiness

love remorse or regret

compacting much of the mind

this way and ball it up

upon a printed page

gave it a name,

then abandon it

let it become a piece thrown aside,

to be read again one

future day,

at completion a certain smile

pleasure heightened

few could ever see,

it was written

it was done,

exhale pull away

tremors in the arms

till the next moment.

46 thoughts on “Stones Thrown as the Crow Flies

  1. Clawfish … great name! First I have to say I never feel this way, then again I am not really sure why I write. I think what I like most about this is that I can actually feel how you feel in this poem. I like its tightness … its control. Well, I like your sense of control.

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  2. “ball it up / upon a printed page / gave it a name, / then abandon it / let it become a piece thrown aside.” This seems so sad.

    The past two months I’ve been exploring piece long ago thrown aside. They bring smiles upon occasion, but sometimes not so much..

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  3. The creative process with an element of persistence and strange peace. Love the way that you’ve mapped it out for us. I like the presence of light and warmth in this piece.

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  4. Chris, thank you for following catnipoflife. Our writing styles are very different but each carries a distinct message. I especially like this poem for its visionary clarity. Like so many others who have commented, the opening line is brilliant!

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  5. Great comment on the work of poets, of writers in general. My God, Chris, I have scraps of paper, cocktail napkins, even a piece of old shoe leather (don’t ask) with parts of poems written on them. It’s all in a box and I pull things out at random to see if they will spark.

    The splinter of memory, causing the tear (for whatever reason), it’s like you are bleeding a bit for the sake of the whole process. Strong, yet vulnerable… crunchy outside, chewy center. Thanks so much! Amy

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  6. This captures the moment of creative pleasure so well, its struggle with mind and body awake to things that they might or might not wish to acknowledge. In that crux, indeed, we see self being pulled together, making one for that fleeting second of inspiration what might ultimately be chaos.

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  7. Loved this even more on second read…this time thinking..do we ever shelve it..well someday but there are some we just love to tinker with! Great work.

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  8. “at completion a certain smile / pleasure heightened /few could ever see” — I’ve recently rediscovered this high; it really is amazing how the mind can get so trapped. Very nicely expressed.

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  9. midnight had crawled
    out of his head leaving the
    early hours to do their work

    I love this bit here. Have you considered taking a closer look at the spacing between your lines? Blocking things into stanzas forces me to consider my words and their flow more carefully.

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  10. Stones thrown, words flung, crows like characters darken the screen; we write, we worry a word, cut and paste a phrase back and forth, we contemplate the end that was the start of it all anyway, and at last, smug, we finish (for a while) promising to come back to edit. Yes, the whole act is here, spread out upon a screen for all of us to read. Brilliant!

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  11. can feel the creative process at work

    really like,

    “a splinter of memory

    curdled color at the corner

    of his eye”

    and i imagined “curdled” as an adjective and as a verb, nuancing it even more for me 😉

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  12. I can so picture this. The writer huddled up in the semi darkness, most light coming from the computer screen and the writer’s almost obsession of needing to write, anything, just because he has such a huge need to. You painted such a vivid picture here. Very nice write.

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