This is my attempt to understand both the dangers and rewards awaiting those who dare to write - and then send the results out into the ether.

 

Bright Sky

Writing is exquisite pain and pleasure, bound

in sprayed-on railway walls, in tapping dry

black torrents like gushing wells: ill-found,

spectacular but slowly emptying to reveal

a vault of sky so bright, so slyly hiding its intent

that words, as weapons, leave the writer's mind unmeant.

 

And this is so for those who shout in whispers

on white canvas, quarto sheet, computer, mobile phone:

would have one breathe “yes, yes, I understand” at vespers

said on autumn evenings, as the sun's inclining gloam

relieves the sear of day with cleric night-balm;

blessed comprehension daily moulding terrors calm.

 

Since we who know we cannot, finally, apprehend

nor harbour mere suspicion of a reasoned, human sense

as gleaned from black marks on paper, from teeth and tongue of friend,

and prefer the presence of the dawn, cold-blue in its incandescence,

a time to write of journeys undertaken and complete

while planning others still within our compass, and our feet.

 

Chris Hubbard

2015