Writing thousand words
Drawing thousand lines
Is writing 1000 words similar to drawing 1000 lines.
The same number of one or the other.
My hand moves over the paper.
The pen follows my thoughts.
And draws on the paper more lines.
Uses whatever works best to illustrate the current thought process,
to illustrate what I am dealing with at the time of execution.
1000 somethings are helping me talk, show on paper what I often didn’t know I was trying to work out. What flows from my hand into my pen, while my body often sits peacefully on a chair, stands at a table, at an easel.
And my hand moves.
I watch and see a part of myself in action. And through that action a part of myself acquires a life of its own.
Writing a 1000 words,
1000 lines,
Living through 1000 nights, days, weeks, months, minutes.
The hand that commends my life.
The moving hand from left to right or the other way.
Still not sure.
But my hand does not mind, isn’t bothered.
My shoulder is woken into activity.
I can feel the movement from the shoulder down to my pen.
My muscles, my nerves on alert
Performing obediently their tasks.
My shoulder blade concentrating on the act,
The bone even irritated by so much activity.
And the rest of my body attentive, giving itself over to the action of the active pen.
In front of me on the page, the screen, the canvas.
I see my thoughts being born, conceived, growing, sometimes starting to make sense, and fitting a bigger picture.
Dying, those 1000 words, lines as compost decompose,
In somebody else's mind.
Where after a lot of rest, nourishment, and gestation?
They will then appear on another page written by another pen, coming through another hand.
But still 1000 words, lines, colours
And my pen records them all.
About the Creator
Jeannine Kauffmann
Poetry writer in the early morning. Poetry as a wake up call. Then later I draw lines and colours. I have a page on Instagram my art other than words although it contains words too. Titles are important to finish a piece like a full stop.
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More stories from Jeannine Kauffmann and writers in Poets and other communities.
At the Sheltering Doors
The doors, they always scrambled for the doors first. When they arrive and always by night it was a race to desperately bar the creatures entry to the house in the slow crawl of numb feet that the dream would impose upon him. He never seemed fast enough and the creatures uninhibited by the same constraints always made the doors first. The houses in his dream-scapes vary night to night - Some are mansions, others shacks and some are distorted contortions of his childhood home which burned down when he was ten. But the doors are always the same – frail, loose hinged and never could be fully shut. The creatures too vary – twisted and corrupted forms of animals and people familiar to him: family dogs preternaturally swollen to twice their size with rotting coats of mange and slicked damp with dark liquids of decay. The people too were bloated vestiges of ones vaguely familiar to him but whose names escape him. Their eyes gorged wide with dark blood which streaked their mottled faces in crusted trails like lost rivers which hung from their chins swinging in ropy columns beneath paling yellowed teeth. To let them break through would mean death. This he knew with grave certainty. At the door was desperation and panic as their stench emanated forth, sickly and pungent like vomit and mold and ending in a gruesome exhalation like cancer, the stench sticky and clinging invading his nostrils and lungs never to be expunged. Then in the sudden waking he never knew if he repelled them or not.
By Kevin Rolly3 days ago in Horror
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