The Poet’s Confused Quill

After lunch, with the air heavy and my thoughts drifting in a fog, I still reached for the quill. Even in these muddled moments, the world offers small reminders — a magpie in the grass, another lifting into the grey sky — that creativity doesn’t disappear; it simply falters and finds its way again. Today’s poem grew from that gentle wobble, from the tiredness and the tenderness of still trying to write when the mind feels a little featherless.

The Poet’s Confused Quill

I’m a pushcart poet
without an axle for the wheels
(maybe all I need is a square meal)

The thick green grass
is soggy and tangled

I’m a muddling magpie
with his featherless quill
stuck in the muddy mire.

The heavy, becalmed air
Is smoggy and breathless

Is the gloomy sky falling down
or will the poet’s hallowed ground
rise up again, when his eyes hear sound

Sometimes clarity returns not in a rush, but in the stillness after confusion — where the long way around becomes the way back to ourselves.

Ivor Steven ©  October 2026