Bllank Paper poem by Dyfed Lloyd Evans
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Blank Paper
Paper — accusing blankness
bewails the wood from which it's made
Cries: 'who are you to think
you can create your art
on rolled-out pulp?
Engender novelty
on slaughtered wood.
Your ink, organic toxin
sinks deep into my form
staining me with gall.
By what right do you inscribe
the patterns of your life on me?
What do you care of me —
my history
when I join discarded scraps
that desecrate your bin?
Another failed attempt
at the great masterpiece that lies
deep buried in your psyche.
What care I, bleach-impregnated
and dead
of your petty imaginings?'
bewails the wood from which it's made
Cries: 'who are you to think
you can create your art
on rolled-out pulp?
Engender novelty
on slaughtered wood.
Your ink, organic toxin
sinks deep into my form
staining me with gall.
By what right do you inscribe
the patterns of your life on me?
What do you care of me —
my history
when I join discarded scraps
that desecrate your bin?
Another failed attempt
at the great masterpiece that lies
deep buried in your psyche.
What care I, bleach-impregnated
and dead
of your petty imaginings?'
I'd reached a point during writing another poem where I was completely blocked and couldn't think of anything else to put down. In an attempt at overcoming this I began to look at things from the viewpoint of the paper. What would the sheet I was trying to write upon think of my attempts.
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