Last week, I wrote a post about the troubles writers go through while trying to find inspiration. One of my solutions to that problem was to look at different subjects of photography (or take the pictures yourself, if you’re feeling artsy). Drawing inspiration from this medium is a good way to get rid of that pesky writer’s block and get your brain functioning again.
I’ve actually been working on a piece of my own that was inspired by a photograph (or, potentially, an extremely realistic painting now that I’ve looked at it more deeply) and I’ve chosen to share it with you all. This poem was written after much thought and contemplation on this picture/painting and is completely up for constructive feedback. In fact, I welcome it. If you’re not very familiar with analyzing poetry or the mechanics of it, don’t worry, I’d just be happy if you understood what was going on!
(Also, please don’t copy this poem and claim it as your own. That would be stealing, and, not to mention, very rude.)
In The Night
Rubber sole hits asphalt.
Mossy underbrush borders a single stretch of road.
A man walks along it, his mind consumed by the hunt.
Stay hidden Mother whispered, shutting him in darkness.
Nostrils flared, the air thick with the musk from his urine-stained boots,
Bob-whites whistle and he swivels, surveying the breaks in the trees.
Split knuckles wipe the sweat away from two black eyes – just lack of sleep this time
Before his fingers fill the familiar grooves in his Glock .45.
He grips it tight, scanning for antler tips and the haze of cheap cigarettes
When he sees a ray of moonlight, a crack in a closet,
Shine down on a beautiful white-tailed doe.
The click-click of the slide jerks her head toward him
And he stops, lowering his gun to gaze into
Bright blue irises speckled with his signature gold flecks
A name brushes against his lips like a comforting stroke of his hair.
Then it all happened so fast.
Two blinding headlights scream toward him,
A pair of drunken white fists,
The light revealing him.
“Stay hidden!” he begs her,
But she leapt in the road
In front of him,
As doe often do.
And as the lights come closer,
His arm shields his eyes,
The name again rising from his throat,
And it’s over.
She’s gone. The lights are gone.
It’s just him
Inside the wood.
“Not again” he cries.
And as a single guilty tear escapes him,
He raises the gun to the side of his head and
Skin hits soft green bed.
He lay motionless,
Tangled in a mess of his own sheets,
His cheek moist.