Thursday, January 13, 2011

Little poem... big aspiration...

We write because we have a story to tell... dreams we would like to share... pain that needs to be healed... We write in hopes of inspiring. We write to teach others. We write when we are happy and when we are sad... when we achieve... and when we fail... when we find love... and when it slips away... we write...
We write early in the morning with coffee and the rain... we write late in the evening with wine and the pain... We write for strangers and we write for our friends... We write stories with no beginnings... and we write stories with no end...
We write with pen and paper... and we write code to send out on the wire... we write truth and lies and shades of grey.. Some words fade away... and some spread like a brush fire... We write with passion... we write with rage... we write endless sonnets... we write three words on a page...
We write..

As writers we hope that the words we leave behind will fall into the hands of some one who will make use of them - they will learn from them, they will be inspired by them, they will live a better, richer life because of them... we hope that our words will last the test of time and be taught in schools and debated over in institutes of higher learning... or at the very least... quoted by a graffiti artist in the mist of revolution... or is it just me?

The poem you are about to read is such a poem... it has big aspiration... it is the one work that I leave behind that I hope will last the test of time... it is the one work I leave the world as proof that I was here... that I loved... that I dreamed... that I lived my life with passion. I leave this little poem in hopes that it will fall from lips wherever people gather to say good by to their loved ones... when friends reunite to laugh and remember and share dreams that got away... where Scotts men and sailors gather to drink... when soldiers and peace officers raise a glass for the fallen... wherever whiskey and wine and cold beer flows... oh sweet Heaven, let them sing my prose...

For a Scottish Angel

I would cross the ocean on an old Chinese junk
Carry the tears of angels in a paper cup
I would chase all the stars until they no longer shine
Until there are no drums a’ beating in this old heart of mine

I would cross the Never-Never down on my knees
And leave behind the oasis I call home in my dreams
I would abandon the treasures in my sweet Singapore
For an angel’s a’ waiting on a cold Scottish shore...

I would dive into the water where the light has never shone
Crawl through the Sahara until I get me back home
I would race around the Arctic chasing dolphin and wale
Oh let the whispers of Heaven be the breeze in my sails

I would conquer every mountain in the world I must climb
Turn my back to the riches- perchance I might find
Now no devil and demon can hold me back any more
For an angel’s a’ waiting on a cold Scottish shore...


Isabel Martínez Rossy said...

Todas ellas son buenas razones para ponerse delante de un papel en blanco o del teclado del ordenador...para rebuscar en nuestro cerebro o en las vísceras que llenan nuestro pecho o nuestro vientre...y cuando las palabras han surgido que el viento las lleve donde tengan que llegar

eMi said...

Writing is a painful job, at least for me. Not for the hard work that it implies (I am not afraid of working as I am really used to it). Thus, writing isn't painful because of the process, but because of the result . Getting something that lasts the test of time is difficult. I hope this poem of yours achieves that goal. For me, it is worthy. In any case, with your permission, it will surely be studied at one High School.

There is another thing I hope, which is that your Scottish Angel deserves you.