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A Writers Vocation by Fiza Pathan

January 13, 2013

I sit at my study table

The fire warming the silence of this rainy afternoon

A slender flame leaps out of the place of shadows,

Making me profess that which may not go in vain.

I lift the pen with my right hand

And bring the diary of my life so far towards me.

I ask the flame of knowledge burning before my eyes

Where do I go from here … what is my vocation?

Answer it gave me naught

But its bright words burnt my paper thrice;

Upon the words I wrote it bade them

Leap from slumber and enter within.

Every writer of truth understands

His writings come from that one single fire

That blemishes the red wounds of a sage’s flesh for us;

Every time he lifts his pen

To pour out his hearts yearnings onto the papyrus,

His duty towards mankind is sealed in it.

A writer’s vocation lies within the multitude of souls that can hear;

That taste the sound of the lover of the saints upon his pen nib.

Who yearns by his words for the betterment of mankind

And for the panacea required to soothe that never answered question

within his bleeding chest … who am I, what am I.

To such a writer as this, the vocation is not easy;

It pricks him at every step and stings him at every sentence.

For he does not speak of his own self but

From the flame that leaps out from the core of his blood

And the divinity of His love.

For he speaks the truth which can never be heard,

Of what no one speaks and yet wants to know.
He writes of the misery of death

The simplicity of the pure;

The witness of the Christ and the duty of one’s birth;

Of the rights of men and women….of the blind and of those who cannot see

Of young dying souls and of souls dying young.

Of what is truth in the death of millions and the fuss about external beauty;

Of the abortion of infants and the death of students;

For the flame that burns within the redness of existence the flame that burns up eternity.

These are the words of my vocation I pen down from my study of sacred scripture.

The flame ceases to come towards me.

O that the night never comes

That I may ponder upon the banishment of my lot

To the realm of the green vine

Which no gardener comes to prune;

To the occupation of the material realm

Cast out by the ruby flame.

But … vocation surpasses the winner

And the bride has at last met her groom;

For no man can resist … the flame that resides within.

Copyright © 2013 by Fiza Pathan

From → Literature, Poetry

4 Comments
  1. Reblogged this on insaneowl.

  2. sunilnoronha@gmail.com permalink

    The writer and his muse
    THE WRITER AND HIS MUSE

    “I see you’ve come again to haunt my night and rob me of my sleep. Who
    are you, anyway?”

    “I am child to your parents and parent to your child. I am your best
    friend – sometimes I think, your only friend.”

    “What do you want of me?”

    “To talk. To speak of times past and future. They are, after all, the
    same.”

    “But, what if I don’t choose to listen.”

    “There is no choice but to listen.”

    “What am I supposed to do?”

    “Hear me with your eyes, touch me with your voice, know me with your
    soul.”

    “Why me?”

    “You were chosen.”

    “By you?”

    “We were both chosen.”

    “By whom?”

    “That’s not for me to say.”

    “Do you know?”

    “What is knowing?”

    “I don’t know. Tell me.”

    “I cannot. It is something you must discover for yourself.”

    “But where do I look?”

    “You don’t have to look.”

    “Then how am I supposed to find this “knowing” you talk about.”

    “It will find you when you are ready.”

    “Will I know it when it comes to me?”

    “If you so choose.”

    “And, what am I supposed to do in the meantime?”

    “Write.”

    “Write what?”

    “It doesn’t matter.”

    “If it doesn’t matter, why should I do it?”

    “Because you have to.”

    “Yes, I have to.”

    “We agree, then?”

    “Yes, we agree. But why does there have to be such pain?”

    “Giving birth has always been painful.”

    “Giving birth?”

    “Yes. When something new comes into the world, it must struggle to be born.”

    “Why?”

    “Because it must value its existence. If there is no price, there is no value.”

    “Must I value it as well?”

    “When you come to know it, you will come to value it as well.”

    “What shall I look for? What form will it take?”

    “What shape or form is an idea?”

    “It’s without shape – without form.”

    “Yet is it not ideas which give shape and form to the world as a glass
    gives shape and form to water?”

    “When you put it that way….”

    “I must go now.”

    “No, wait. I have more questions.”
    19/01/2006
    Milt
    writer & muse continued
    “Next time.”

    “When will you come again?”

    “When you call me.”

    “I don’t know how.”

    “You don’t have to know. I will know and I will come.”

    “Don’t leave yet. I can’t sleep now. Keep me company.”

    “You don’t need me any longer tonight.”

    “I don’t know what to do.”

    “Write, just write.”

    Found it a long tine ago on the Web

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  1. A Writer’s Vocation « insaneowl

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