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About This Author
My name is Joy, and I love to write.
Why poetry, here? Because poetry uplifts its writer, and if she is lucky enough, her readers, too. Around us, so many objects abound to write about. Once a poet starts with a smallest, most trivial object, he shall discover that his pen will spill out what is most delicate or most majestic hidden inside him. Since the classics sometimes dealt with lofty subjects with a lofty language, a person with poetry in his soul may incline to emulate that. That is understandable. Poetry does that to a person: it enlarges the soul and gives it wings. Yet, to really soar, a poet needs to take off from the ground.
 
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Kindled from Inside Walls,
caked and cracked
with dried up dreams,
windowpanes,
cloudy grey
in broken trusts,
and five doors,
numb with rage,
cannot open to the world.
In the dank, moldy hallway,
I wring my spectral stairs
to the eerie tick of the grandfather clock
--a time-bomb on a death-watch--
as sinuous ghosts invade
my every corner and crevice
and drift through the silt of
hoarded years,
looking for a sign of life
before the calendar dies.
For fear of this dark,
I let the wind
break in and catch me
with a spark:
“Who are you?”
Kindled, I arise
so bright, so alive,
shaking off good or evil,
letting every sorrow fall
to the blazing ardor within,
so the shell,
liberated from being just a dwelling,
burns its callousness,
and the heart
is cleansed through
spontaneous combustion,
to bare an imperishable spirit.
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© Copyright 2004 Joy (joycag at Writing.Com).
All rights reserved.
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