A Poem Comes to Life

The white bones of a poem
long for words,
flesh of their existence.
Wily words prick,
leaving indelible tattoos
on the poet’s soul,
squirming onto a page,
punctuated
with Rorschach blots.

The poet splits into three:
artist, scribe and critic
talk among themselves.

Kim M. Russell, 2016

words-and-blots

My response to Imaginary Garden with Real Toads: The Tuesday Platform

27 thoughts on “A Poem Comes to Life”

  12. They used to hand us these blots in school when I was young. It was a private arts school, supposedly progressive — and yet, I always felt they were waiting for me to give a specific answer…of which I was usually unable (or unwilling) to give. I enjoy the thought of them scratching their heads upon my answer, staring into the blot, wondering….split into threes….:-) Thanks for sharing.

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