Bic Pen(itentray)

"Bic Pen(itentary)" is another one of those pieces where I whine about the muse. It is really a very simple structure, and a part of me would like to go back and expand upon it more, but there is the other side that really likes the execution of it as it is. Lately, of course, the muse has been active enough, but the motivation is lagging a little further behind it than is usual, so, at the moment, this piece feels particularly poignant. In some ways, I feel like I'm in the in-between times, where the story is about to be freed, and the world is going to become new and fresh again. But the story is not free yet, and the labours and toils we suffer while still imprisoned weight heavily. In part, perhaps, we are afraid, as is the ink, what lays beyond the ball. We approach, tentative. And of course, in the due course of time, as we begin to accustom ourselves to the world outside the pen; to the story upon the page, the weight we thought we were carrying slides off of our backs, and a new inspiration strikes; a new world unfolds, and we find ourselves staring once again at the Bic (or the keyboard). Of course, it is not always a tedious business. Just as often, the caper comes off without a hitch, and we get away, avoiding and evading the crystalline prison. But not every time. We do get caught. This is the muse. This is writer's block. Welcome to Bic Pen(itentary). Let's hope for a quick parole.


Bic Pen(itentary)

Each night they howl
“Let me Free”
from their crystalline
prison.

We wardens hear them
locked in the inky black
but to scribe their tales;
powerless

The muse hears them beg
one by one
before the board
for parole.

No matter what we
as wardens think
or how the stories
plead.

Though we may check
their cells
feed them
provoke;

Though the key lies ready
the bic posed
blank lies
the page.

The Muse has granted
no paroles;
none promising
proved.

So we writers,
who know justice,
stand ready;
with our pen

For when the Muse grants such;
frees the tale;
the pen descends
purposeful

And we wardens who watched
now prisoners become:
‘gainst the Muse
We’re powerless.