This is condensed version, only part of a poem I wrote in 2004. It is a poem to be read by two voices. I have separated the voices by color/italics, so be sure to use two voices to read this poem....
Once Upon a Page
by Lisa Balazs
Enter into the room.
There is a table, and a stool.
He has come to write.
It is a small room, a room with a window.
A room with a view.
He takes his place at the high table, and sits silently upon the stool.
He is pensive, thoughtful.
The yearnings of his heart, the wonders in his mind,
the depths of his soul, who can know it?
He smiles for a moment as he gazes beyond the window at the world. It has been a long day. The sun is going down.
He is the author.
Before him on the table,
There is a stack of paper and his pen.
He beholds the paper…
Barren. Desolate.
It is but a blank sheet of paper… …as far as the eyes can see. It is nothing but white upon white,
…or is it, black upon black?
It is a world of white....
Or is it a world of black?
Silent. Unsowed. Empty and void...
Awaiting the seeds of life from the hand of the planter.
He leans forward,
like one who sows seed
Pen in hand, he begins to write.
He works long into the night.
Consider the rhythmic breathing of the author as he transfers the life pulse in his hand...
to the page.
There is much work to do.
He is the scribe.
With his hand he pushes forth his mighty plow into a vast sea of sameness.
then, there is a speck, a line, a curve. a flair…
Life on the page will never be the same again-.
He has broken ground.
From his own hand,
a letter is made as the ink pours out it's life.
at the master’s command.
He is writing.
Hear the rhythmic sound of the pen in movement...
Black upon white...
Black upon white...
Black upon white...
White upon black....
The stroke against the grain of the paper...
a trace, a path…
Another stroke…..
...becomes a word. The first word.
...a trail of thought upon the page...
Knowledge. Wisdom. Life.
A wisp if the author’s brilliance. His thoughts, his words....
Light from light.
It wasn’t there before. It was only white...
It was only black...
Now it's black and white.
The power of the written word....
Another...
and another....
More words.
Across the page, He writes.
a landscape forms.
Mountains and valleys appear out of nothing...
but ink...
Ink...the river of life...
Ink upon the page pouring forth speech...
A rapid, flowing, living river...
A free-flowing river...flowing through the jungle of time and space.
an adventure for those who pursue the trail,
who follow His footpath through the wilderness
With eyes...
or ears....
white on black, black on white
A path
to follow,
A path for those who hearken
sounds disclosed upon the page…
Who hear the words that bubble forth,
a fountain of life.
True story....
from the one who holds the pen.
He presses forth...
and writes some more...
It is written.
Letter by letter, word upon word.
Listen...
Black upon white
Black upon white,
Black upon white.
or is it white upon black?
The pen strokes the page, again and again.
A a mighty chisel in his hand.
His servant.
The the master of the tool.
It is his confidant, his friend. His right hand.
They work together as one.
He is a sculptor, sculpting.
Sculptors
He is a craftsman, crafting,
Craftsmen.
He is a scribe,
ascribing a moment…
a carpenter, whittling the wood.
Now paper... with ink...
An anchor to a moment in eternity,
somewhere in time.
A recollection of the past,
A rendering of the present,
A hope for the future...
His words... His story.
History...
A promise, a trust, a will.
Captured in black and white...
To be delivered.
received...embraced...uttered.
enveloped in time.
contained, but not imprisoned,
Fettered in ink, constrained only by him is his discourse now bejeweled upon the page.
The authors canvas.
(Selah)
Black upon white
Black upon white,
Black upon white.
Or is it white upon black?
He writes.
He pauses. He thinks.
He writes; he writes some more....
He pouts himself out on the paper.
Black upon white
Black upon white,
Black upon white.
Or is it white upon the black?
The contrasts speak.
Let the words themselves speak.
His heart,
his mind,
his soul.
(next line spoken simultaneously...)
Let the contrasts speak. Let the contrasts speak.
Let the contrasts speak.
Let the contrasts speak.
He sets his pen back upon its pedestal.
and gazes for a moment at the etchings he has made.
These pages now filled...
with his pulse, his presence.
With his words.
His paper, his pen, his ink, his words.
His labor of love.
Seeds he has planted...
and tended too,
with his own hand.
The leavings of his life...
Like a tree, his words will stand the test of time...
They will give their fruit in due season, even in black and white.
or is it white and black?
Words written,
Words lived,
Words aptly spoken.
once,
to be read a thousand times,
to be remembered-
Understood forever,
from the beginning to the end.
Morning breaks across the sky, and hazy golden streams of sunlight beam in through the window and they light upon the page.
He is finished...
Tome
Tome
Tome
and it is good.
He snuffs the candle that's still burning; He is done.
His work now complete, he stands and exits the tiny room.
Gently closing the door behind him, he turns and greets the new and glorious day.
hmmmm, Lisa you are too abstract for me!! I don't get this poem..
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