“At the touch of love, everyone becomes a poet” – Plato
I don’t know how other people feel about this, but for me this cannot be more right. English is my second language and I had always struggled a little with writing. It surprises me now to find so many pieces of creative writing in my documents from the past year or so.
The first of these is a poem I wrote to address the frustration I felt towards love. When I wrote this poem, I was resentful towards love for making me suffer the indescribable pain of loving someone who did not love me back. What compelled me to put down my emotions in words, I do not know; perhaps love is an emotion that particularly demands to be explored and analysed, unlike other emotions such as anger or bliss. However, this poem led to other poems and stories and I now enjoy writing in a way that I would not have thought possible several years ago. Here it is;
The bittersweet maze
The full moon rising above, a reminder of
The time spent in the never ending winding maze.
So long, so long – she knew not whence it began,
Nor the hour she felt herself
Drawn, to the enchanting trees
Bathed in golden light.
She believed the maze to be only a game,
Stepping over the thin, old chord,
Entering with light spirited steps.
But going around the turns
And twists, there came a point,
When she realised the maze was not
A simple leisure to spend her time.
She wished for a kind guide, who might
Turn the maze into a labyrinth
And help her get out of the maze,
But she was alone in taking paths
Which lead her deceivingly on.
Little rest did she get. When she did,
Her head drooped upon her shoulder
And she slipped into the land of sub consciousness.
Her mind plagued her with images that could not be.
The moon above shining so serene, so perfect,
Cast light for the child and she had some hope.
Despite the wretched blackthorn bushes,
Which opened fresh wounds and denied
All attempts to force her way through,
She could not bring herself to hate the bittersweet maze.
She saw blind Cupid and adored Aphrodite
In what she believed to be the centre of the maze,
An ancient statue – so perfectly
Sculpted in pure white marble, full
Of heavenly elegance and enchantment;
Once placed for the beauty been,
Now half hidden with clinging ivies.
Overcome with fatigue and chagrin,
The girl collapsed like a suppliant,
Leaning against the cold marble legs.
She yearned to move on,
And she longed to reach the end of the maze,
Where she would fall out, a lily of the valley;
But the tedious maze drained her.
And she remained there for a while longer,
In the old, crippling, bittersweet snare.