Throes of Creation by Leonid Pasternak
I sat to write to keep me warm, I toiled with pen some bitter scorn. I spun a shadow, I felled a tree, in awkward syllables I wished to see, and still within me something grew, an inward soliloquy that shook the room. What if, in color, I wrote a fate, a detailed sonnet, an ode to hate? While hearts fell shaking in earthbound flight, a penciled journey on a starless night, I wrote in earnest, I drew in glee, strange lyrical verses by six and by three. Dark words on parchment not meant to be. For written in breath between the lines, there was a curse, a scribble scribed, a poem engraved in broken time. An omen tempted upon the page, a rhyme, a token, an author’s rage.
It was a summer when I wrote last, the gods of wonder let me pass, took me to heaven past some gates, phonetic magic in clear glass lakes. Described in narrative by angels worth, a book of novel a writers birth. I was the novel alive in light, an untidy journey scrawled in block type. A cast of millions filled my mind, ideas of magic that seemed to align, a story forever that staid the heat, antagonist fury that rid deceit. In tense and medium and style of design, I lived with my characters, and made them mine. Forgotten was anger, and black words of lore, in genre and motif, I jotted for more, and as summer went, I entered a plan, I’d write about days and the love of G-Ds plan.
The writer of darkness, she is what she sees, a stranger to living, a jailor in need. A writer for fortune he spins tales of woe, to heighten his margin and shill all his gold. The writer of romance she favors a war, where sex has no balance and envy wants more. A writer of mystery, he marvels at crime, afraid of his conscience and what he might find. The writer of days of what I can see, wants balance in writing, and all that can be. I write in fulfillment of grace in my hands, my terror is over, Hashem guides my plans, for over and over, inside what I see is writing forever, a dance within me. – 06-20-2014 – דָּנִיֵּאל