The Sun Illuminates the Page

The sun illuminates the page, I write.

I’m being literal: today, the sun

has not been hidden by a bank of clouds;

instead, her rays are landing everywhere,

including, as it happens, on the empty page

of my new notebook, hence – ‘The sun

illuminates the page.’ It wants to be

a metaphor. The sun is consciousness?

it says, uncertainly. I can’t be sure,

it says. Perhaps I mean awareness? Where’s

a guru when you need one? Maybe it’s

that ‘consciousness awareness’ thing I’ve read

so much about? The line returns to silence.

It doesn’t last. The page is blank. Was blank,

it says, until you wrote me down. Before

my words were fixed upon the page, the page

was empty; now, it’s filling up with words.

The empty page is what you are because

you are a poet; had you been a painter,

you would have been the canvas; had you been

a sculptor, clay; a goldsmith, gold. You get

the gist. ‘Indeed I do,’ I say. ‘But what

are all the words?’ I ask, because the page

has now filled up with words, and I have had

to turn it over. Words are what you think you

you are, it says. ‘I am the poem when

the page is full,’ I mutter to myself.

Except you aren’t! it says. I don’t know why

an exclamation mark was needed; there

it is, though. Words are misdirection. Words

are a distraction. Words are fundamental to

that human quest which everybody leans

towards – which is to clutter up

their lives with our greatest illusion: purpose.

   ‘I wonder what it is that I’ve

      been doing all these years.’

   You thought you were the words;

      without the page, you’re nothing.

 

The sun illuminates the page, I write.

Next time, I’ll think of something less contentious.