Dear readers,
I am in contact since a few days now, with some of you my beloved readers. I have to say that it touches me a lot to be contacted and get feedback from you all in general. The worst thing that could happen to me, or one fellow blogger because I think I am not alone in that case, is to be ignored completely.
I am writing to create reactions among my readers, if I am a bit ambitious, I would say my goal is actually to create emotions, good or bad, but be aware that I am trying to reach you and make you feel something … most of the time I think I fail, but if I want to make progress I need to get your feedbacks, it’s my fuel to write… well let’s be more humble, it’s my fuel to blog (this is where I belong).
So I am in contact with a few of you : Caroline off course, Aaron, Kevin to mention a few, and more recently Alma. Actually it makes me so happy to get to know you. I really encourage you to contact me, I do not bite, well it never happened up to now at least, so … take the risk.
So let’s come back to this poem. This is Alma (the blonde lady on the picture) who sent it to me, it is about writing (not my case as I said, I can only blog, but it is quite similar activity). The author is polish, her name is Wislawa Szymborska, and I finally found an english translation that I copied below:
For a drink of written water from a spring
whose surface will xerox her soft muzzle?
Why does she lift her head; does she hear something?
Perched on four slim legs borrowed from the truth,
she pricks up her ears beneath my fingertips.
Silence – this word also rustles across the page
and parts the boughs
that have sprouted from the word “woods.”
Lying in wait, set to pounce on the blank page,
are letters up to no good,
clutches of clauses so subordinate
they’ll never let her get away.
Each drop of ink contains a fair supply
of hunters, equipped with squinting eyes behind their sights,
prepared to swarm the sloping pen at any moment,
surround the doe, and slowly aim their guns.
They forget that what’s here isn’t life.
Other laws, black on white, obtain.
The twinkling of an eye will take as long as I say,
and will, if I wish, divide into tiny eternities,
full of bullets stopped in mid-flight.
Not a thing will ever happen unless I say so.
Without my blessing, not a leaf will fall,
not a blade of grass will bend beneath that little hoof’s full stop.
Is there then a world
where I rule absolutely on fate?
A time I bind with chains of signs?
An existence become endless at my bidding?
The joy of writing.
The power of preserving.
Revenge of a mortal hand.
It is to me a touching text, and I thank you Alma for sharing it, with me, with us.Hopefully Wislawa will touch you, wherever you are, whoever you are.
Kisses,
Cathy
6 responses to “The joy of writing”
I think I should have the privilege being the first one to write a comment to this post, a nice post to my personal feelings. You're completely right Catherine, when you write something, whatever might it be, a poem or a blog as well, what you write is not completely yours, but belongs to everyone who will read it. I support your writing. Who can know how the reader will react? You touched me, thank you so much for that. Alma
Thank you for your testimony, much appreciated
Thank you for the beautiful poem and sentiment. I'm glad to know you at least a little bit, Catherine, and I hope you continue to write and entertain!
I am so glad to know you as well Aaron. See you soon in-world hopefully.
Hello Cathy,
I understand you only too well. The interaction with others on the topics they write as well as sharing my thoughts with others, is what is fueling my ambitions as well.
I love following your stories, and hope you will continue to fuel that lust for new words as well.
Maybe we can find some time to meet in world and just delve in words a little 😉
S
Hello Silky,
thanks for your kind words, and happy to get your feedback. I am definitely in to meet in-world when you have time. Friend me?