From a Leaden Inkless Pen

Image by JL G from Pixabay

Time’s chant, a ravishing rant to a pale consumed moon 
In her lap a palmed rose, red as the blood of a newborn lamb
As skulls of saints hum spiritual songs with lonely cries of loons
While enticing them with tendrilled vines of bitter wild yams.

Upon these bleached stark bones, a grotesque painted mirth
Escaping from their jaws while immersed in achromous dreams
An embryonic nude as a mother poetess gives birth
Emboldened by their unrelenting inaudible screams.

From a leaden inkless pen, startling new words emerge
While the found poem bleeds grey upon fragile white paper 
Fragmented ideas become whole as creative lines converge
Wielding with rapier wit, enslaving the words to her favor.

She laid upon linen parchment in all its naked bloody glory
The painful purge of her tortured soul in an entangled story.

©2020 Linda Lee Lyberg

Author’s Note: Laura is hosting at dVerse Poets Pub: Poetics and has given us a list of words to use from Samuel Greenberg’s “The pale Impromptu.” I have chosen the following to use: ‘Consumed moon, palmed rose, skulls of saints, spiritual songs, times chant, and painted mirth.’

Linda Lee Lyberg is a wife, mother, artist, published poet and author. She resides in Mesa, AZ with her husband Pete (aka The Big Viking) of 24 years, and her dog, Ricky Bobby. Linda writes various forms of poetry, as well as short stories. You can read more of her works at: charmedchaos.com
and purchase anthologies containing her work here: Amazon Author Page

22 Comments on “From a Leaden Inkless Pen

  1. A visceral sonnet indeed and some really good rhymes to match. This verse conjured the dead poet for me whilst also reflecting your own expansive exploration with this prompt. Bravo!

    “From a leaden inkless pen, startling new words emerge
    While the found poem bleeds grey upon fragile white paper
    Fragmented ideas become whole as creative lines converge
    Wielding with rapier wit, enslaving the words to her favor.”

    Liked by 1 person

  2. I love this poem, Linda, which reads like a ballad or a tragic song. I love the phrase ‘a ravishing rant to a pale consumed moon’ and the lines:
    ‘From a leaden inkless pen, startling new words emerge
    While the found poem bleeds grey upon fragile white paper
    Fragmented ideas become whole as creative lines converge’.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Love this especially; “Upon these bleached stark bones, a grotesque painted mirth / Escaping from their jaws while immersed in achromous dreams.” Gorgeously rendered, Linda! 💝

    Liked by 1 person

  4. It is clear you put a lot of time and thought into this sonnet, Linda. It reads like a magical incantation to me. Beautiful!

    Like

  5. This is reminiscent to a tragedy with a dark enchant:

    “Upon these bleached stark bones, a grotesque painted mirth
    Escaping from their jaws while immersed in achromous dreams…”

    How dark, how very visceral, and stunning. I love your work and this is one of my new favorites of yours now. Marvelous penning, as always. 😉

    Like

  6. Lovely ars poetica sonnet Linda, Great surreal imagery – ‘tendrilled vines of bitter wild yams.’ ‘achromous dreams’ (wonderful word) in which Greenberg’s charms fit perfectly – and at last, the final couplet – there it is in all its bloodied glory – a poem. Bravo.

    Liked by 1 person

  7. Wow–you ain’t afraid of no sonnet. For me, this becomes one of your best poems; stunning, clever, colorful word-smithing. Lots of great lines, already noted, and add “an embryonic nude as a mother poetess gives birth, emboldened by their unrelenting inaudible screams”.

    Liked by 1 person

  8. kaykuala
    Fragmented ideas become whole as creative lines converge
    Wielding with rapier wit, enslaving the words to her favor.

    Such a satisfying moment when things work out as intended. Wonderful write Linda!

    Hank

    Liked by 1 person

  9. This is a fantastic description of the creative process. I especially love the lines ‘An embryonic nude as a mother poetess gives birth/Emboldened by their unrelenting inaudible screams.’ Sometimes poetry is like that, so relentless until we have told our tale.

    Liked by 1 person

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