No.17
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This swaggering nebbish, occulted by reticence,
Ambivalent to all save the rare, volant sentence,
Shies from public performance (that feckless adventure),
Declines documentation, yet craves constructive censure.
.
A reclusive archer, a’quiver his arrow;
The scope of his genius irreducibly narrow.
Standing self-conscious at crossroads of Solitude, Loneliness,
Shrugs off discomfort, fits shaft, sets about business.
.
Slips after his quarry among shadows city-cut
Obsessed singular vision, a vanquishing insight:
To be ineluctably occupying your memory
To achieve it with words honed away ’til there aren’t too many;
Just enough to lodge splinter-like, begin subtle burrowing.
.
So he shoot, waits breathless, his own heart hammering.
Will his words be dislodged, though barbed with raw sentiment?
Too dull to pierce through, too few to whisper what he meant?
Archer unnoticed; how can arrows find their mark;
Would you notice, even, if one found your heart?
.
I’ll stand nearby, and maybe smile to hear you hum
The words of my poem to the beat of another’s drum.
.
No.17
Erik Kaisson, 2017
… and my 200th post.