This poem was originally written for an assignment in my poetry class, and it was one of the most difficult poems for me to write. "The Writer" is a surrealistic poem, and it was difficult to come up with because I tend to write from actual experiences (or at least partially). I was wracking my brain, trying to think up some bizarre plot line and characters that would qualify as "surreal," but I kept coming back to the following idea: starting out with a whimsical world and having the reader realize it's only a figment of the writer's imagination, which is made known by switching from third- to first-person voice.
I hope you enjoy!
The greens of the sky and the blues
of the dense grass act like a roadblock,
only rough elbowing can get her through.
But someone jabs a hand through the turf;
an offering, an invitation.
She reaches out in response, and a force
pulls her through. No distinct face, just an
unknown warmth in the smile that
greets her from the other side.
Here, the colors glisten and the creatures
float, not walk, along cobalt soil.
Spotting a fuzzy, cotton-ball boulder,
she extends her hand, just inches from
the unknown rock or concealed creature—
until I tilt my head up from the ink-splotched notebook,
slowly fan through the pages, and the
wire-bound book sighs as I close it.