Oxford Abigail Long
It begins with the opening of books,
plunging into pools of musty writing—
fueled by much desperation and tea.
And the attempt to awaken the stone
-like brain from granite slumber with food,
prod it with cookies and conversation.
Then within there begins conversation
between the crowded pages of books
and the busy mind; words become food
munched until they manifest in writing
building, building, mortar upon stone
through the swirling of thought bathed in tea.
The conclusion in sight, armed with soothing tea,
and then there begins a new conversation—
steeling feeling like immoveable stone
to accept the criticism of books
and unknowns, relinquishing your writing,
hoping for that dear word ‘Good’: a writer’s food
to write again. Then gather round for food
with a new family, bonded by tea,
not blood, tied with camaraderie in writing
and brought close with laughing conversation,
unity of age, and the love of books
until friendship is laid firmly in stone.
This city breathes years in yellow stone
the treading of feet upon feet is food
for poetry, prose. The scenes of books
unfold around corners, within the tea
shops where the giants had conversations
about art, about the past, about writing,
right where you sit now. What are you writing?
here you are at this place, touching the same stone
they touched, hearing echoes of conversation
in the pubs where they sat, eating the food
you are now eating, sipping the same tea.
Will your voice return to its birth like these books?
will it become as they have, the food
for another hopeful pen writing (with tea)
alive among conversation, books, and stone?