I’ve had a lot of “writer’s block” lately (not for lack of ideas- I have too many to complete in my lifetime!), so I thought I would share with you a few of my poems about writing. They will be included in Cracking the Nut, a collection of poems inspired by ballet stories and dance in general, as well as a revised edition of my first self-published chapbook, Twisting the Glass. May these hands of silver move across the page again soon.
By Kerrie A. Colantonio
They say it all began with a deadline.
She had been sitting at her computer,
All day, every day,
Staring. Just sitting and staring.
Sometimes she would do searches,
But mostly she would play around with words.
They all fit together, like a formula.
She would highlight some, bold others,
Cut and paste as she thought most appropriate.
Printing, starring, more highlighting.
They say she became entranced by the inks
Then one day, the cold began to creep and settle.
First her hands,
Then her legs.
Soon her whole body trembled-
With excitement, perhaps.
With lack of circulation, most definitely.
Her skin paled,
Like the snow that lay heaped
Outside her small New England apartment.
She couldn’t bear to see such blank pages,
And dreaded the thought of having no more of them.
Winter must come to an end, they say.
We all have our deadlines.
With hands of silver and feet of wood,
I am grounded to the page,
I glide over the stage,
No words to remember,
No colors or emotions to be seen, felt.
My face is as blank as the canvases I hold so close,
In the shadows I wait too long and miss my cue.
I write and write and cannot stop,
Yet the words that appear on the page make no sense.
Compelled, drawn, pulled, entwined with the words,
They are the master, I shall wear them until I die.
Promises must be kept,
A bit of bone lost to keep,
A gift of love made grief.
Shall we ever dance again, you and I?
Alone, one above, one below,
So totally alone,
Yet the only pas de deux
Is the sole ballerina
And the stage.
It does not matter the color of the shoe,
When dancing is your life.
Blue, red, immaculate white,
They are all that is there:
They are not there so the dancer seems to glide on air,
Rather, the dancer is there for the shoes,
A blossom rising above stems,
Firmly rooted to the floor of the stage.
Just so, the writer is not there,
There is no color,
Only the pen,
Keys and ink.
The words are all that matter,
And they will have their way.
They always will.