By Donna Fitzgerald

A glorious voice
In the void of the white noise
In a whispery, willowy way
An ancient chorus
From the Black Forest
Chanting translations of cryptic scrawling
And chalk drawings from the walls of a cave
Striking a chord deep within the core of this empty waste of space
Crawling through every cobwebbed crevice
Calling like water falling
In undulating waves
Stirring this rusted, ruminating deadlocked, writer’s blocked
Pen and paper slave
With fluttering
Libretto buttering
Page after expressionless page
And heaving hushed hints of bluish-gray tinted rushes of wind
Ruffling feather breasted thrushes
With palette, paint and paintbrushes
Fountains of clarion description crushing
Joyce turning over in his grave.