The condemned man is making a statement of purpose, giving birth to his soul (the ribbon of wise) record, which cannot be extinguished by death. The term pigmy bowman is used figurately speaking to describe his captors as hunters of little importance. This symbolic poem poses the question is condemned man mad – or is he a voice of truth? What the poem seeks to do is highlight that small minority of people whose understanding of life and purpose is radically different from others and represents a threat to the powers that be. Except in rare instances the death of such individuals are not recorded to our history -yet their presence whether recorded as madness or divinely inspired has and will continue to change the development of mankind. T.S. Eliot understood that when he said humankind cannot bear too much reality. Note: the number 8 is the symbol of regeneration.
Granite Sliver Arrowhead I see you spurned by Pigmy Bowman yet you suffice and scathe the greening mortar… Mind that delibly records attempt my show and outward personality. This ribbon of a madman’s weave is the tape of all my saying small border thin and compass hand the clutch and stay Fingers…. Placing granite slabs to face their palms of tungsten flesh toward the shortened eye. Yet soon the tongue of this my wise and scrawl became as fever pitch and heavy as the hammer held halfway in arc deliberating as the mother would pressing down urging fingers in the lock of Isis eye to the agony that is mother And now is mine. Is birth! The warder had me carry seven days in labour waiting… before the fertilising seed became and his eye perceived the ribbon of wise inflicted with my word and writing. He stared examined even to the letter head lost in mergence to the polished stone turning, smiled…. Father dimly smiling through the stain of glass in the you can never tell about face…. He left and straight informed the governor. The hammer struck the child full born umbilical cut began to cry…. My eyes were full of faces demanding outstretching palms of tungsten flesh. Their right they screamed is feeding first why was I no askance waiting? They spread upon my word the slime and their cement that matched the slab and then.. Fingers turned upon themselves they commanded- called my clutching hand to lease my living Scribe this chipping sliver of their granite. They took. …. that morning after before the ashen face nether time of wanting day whilst less the night there stood eight mourners neath the sky bowl blooding red in their caps of prison grey and the circle turning tribute was the Sower spreading quicklime. And in my cell There stood another waiting for the shining mortar’s greening mould.
Ah! The pain the wanting all over dilemma sober reach out sweet grape of confusion; a duchess spread out on her savage’s bed willing her blood red to the lips of her lackeying male, neither caring the speech or the stain of his whip. Taking the seventh of her seconding breaths at the weep of secretion.
Comes now the concentration; the apex of arc, the long-drawn laugh of the physical man. The peak, then the plummet of an up thrown stone; extinguishing fire. Then the cold Darkness of Earth and then the winter of a why gloom face frosting the smile of devil cares not into peaceful beginning; a child in the low of the arc, weak murmur of problem.
And yet in end it begins; in the no start never finish real of the spark, in the still heard gasp mute echo of Psi fleeing the white. In the good die young the crude soldier damning as with the devils and the un-vowed nun; the same design. All blind fisherman in the day-night casting pearls from the corporeal banks of unsettled sublimity.
It manifests as harpoon with a white heat line; the strongest plus and minus seed. All charge of the instrument cannon, Time traveller to the state of perpetual climax; there as the spear of the deepest descent. The finder receiving the arranged and irrevocable choice the twin of sex; Satan-Father coalesced.
Consider, discuss, decide as you must. A boy of nine I was, given to play? Yes- but impatient to grow. A minder of sheep and goat, not quite a shepherd, you understand. Arab Jewish Samaritans, lowborn we were under Roman rule in the land of Moses.
Tent dwellers; nomadic in the Way of the Sea we moved our flocks from pasture to fold over plain, hill slope, through mountain pass. Self-sufficient, our mixed blood had no ties in towns and we were shunned in cities. At that time there was much disquiet,
camel borne travellers would hail us seeking safe passage to Damascus anxious for news, telling of homes destroyed of livestock lost. Herod by the sea of salt in hope of cure, still covetous of power. Riots and Roman soldiers everywhere.
It was the hottest time of year -too hot. My father the elder shepherd of our band decreed we leave the plain of Armageddon skirt the Galilean hills and drive to Mount Carmel and fold there in cool caves the pasture good, the Kishon river close.
Unusual for time of year it rained unexpectedly. Wet and freshened I explored cave and gully gaping at rock paintings, sling shooting hawk foolish enough to target our flock. When night fell there was talk about events on the highway, riots in Sepphoris.
Mahmud was our Rabbi, a Samaritan Who taught us boys by rote from a scroll. He would disappear for days on end, reappear warning of wolves, thieves in hiding, bringing herbs, fruits, figs, salt preserved fish, feet, hands, and body bruised and bleeding.
But not this time -from the tomb of Rachel he had seen columns of soldiers, pillars of smoke, people fleeing carnage, a forest of crosses. He arrived much distressed. Nearby, he said, there is a camel camp of Persian men, star diviners, here for some special event.
So deep the dreamless sleep I slept, when roused I complained of being woken. My father’s command to dress was brusque and impatient. Mother soothingly said be quick no time to rest. Sheep and goat were want to break the folds and strange lights had appeared in the heavens.
Girding mantle, grasping staff, sling, and pipe I joined the men grouped around a fireside where Mahmud, repeated yet again to disbelieving ears, of a vision given in prayer, how an angel of the lord appeared announcing birth of a messiah to all men.
How he had run to the Kishon River to impart this news to the Persian men, and they, exclaiming in response said this was the proof, the final proof they sought. And without delay broke camp and headed east. The river shining phosphorus in the night.
Did I hear a voice as we knelt in prayer? For when Mahmud said follow me, I knew the angel would want us shepherds go! Find the birthplace, give tribute to the child. More in fear I think, of unearthly things, Claiming protection of the women folk,
some herders stayed with the folded flock. For me this was adventure, side by side my father leading with Mahmud we trod the Magi’s tracks. An uphill beaten track Nazorean’s often trod beyond Bethlehem to Elijah’s tomb. In silent awe we came
to where the light was strongest; there halted by a well-dressed Jew, then let pass. Mahmud having yet again spoken of his vision. We entered a cave, two donkeys tethered looked at us curiously –and there in a lamp lit area no bigger than a tent
a babe in swaddling clothes lay in the arms of a woman and before them, three Magi. Also, an Arab woman, an older sage-like Jew and a fearsome looking man whose smile belied his looks. The air perfumed –a scent so strong my head whirled with feelings.
We knelt on the hard stone in a presence of many persons unseen; God’s angels I know them now to be. We presented lamb and kid –the best of the litters we had, and in turn were given sweet wine. Yet I was not allowed, and she, seeing this
beckoned me to drink from a leather gourd that hung from the cradle bed, a sweet warming juice. I drank gazing as I did upon the new-born baby’s face. Then not asked but sure of rightness I began to play my shepherd’s pipe. With eyes closed he smiled,
as if somehow, he had heard me play before. The tune was new to me and full of majesty, my fingers moving my brain asleep I lost all sense of time, only just aware of his mother’s happy face; the attention of all that were in that holy place.
As dawn began to show we took our leave. My father with pride made much of my tune. There was curious talk about the older man, was he her husband? Why birth in a cave? They were not poor, and the Magi had given gold! There had been talk of Herod,
more so the riots and of Rome’s steel hand. Yet for all this talk as we returned, the paths aglow, I sensed my nomadic life would never be the same again. We had gained in status been received as equals –us lowborn shepherds; and feted at a godlike event! Yet despite this, seeds of doubt took root.
The holy book lost its magic -I questioned why Jews and Gentiles warred, sacrificial lambs, the militancy of God. Instead, I dreamed of union in remembrance of the child, believing he would one day share our daily bread forever hopeful that our souls might wed.
Consider, discuss, decide as you must the burden of proof is a human need. My shepherd’s tale, straightforwardly said is to you a plea -that in the body’s Keep your soul should no longer groan and weep but celebrate the Love that is Heavens Bread.
November knives are sharp from rarely cutting trees with ice keen to spread the Autumn still disorderly too dead leaf mounds and twisted pyres of broken branches dying. Angry with the suddenness of death upon the long-life summer still gestating seeds incubating the morrow’s generation.
No respecter steel of the horny scale stern stemmed anticipate killer of sweeting herbs laid out of nurseries. Their strike is totality the savage straight and understood unshackled slave the Left of Azoth’s* court ordained Murder’s license. The cyanide of breathing green and making red writ with freedom and the blessing.
Their respect the reaching hand smite upon the pale cheek down-flecked, small bird, lion hearted solitaire late and lonely from the crowded nest. Nelson eye mistaking promised land left in folly for the cockfight.
Permission now the pipe through which the blowing water freezing spear-like knives aim immutably their changing numbers. Now the form and clearly seen disguise upon the ugly cripple-noise of air. Now the Magi calling spell upon the freezing sphere for the maiden less her fall-a-leafing cares and the pretty snow comes charging sleeked venomous with wedding fever.
The negative of burning trees is born in fire beneath the blackened Guy scarce the single six shrivels the dry exhausted breast of summer and defers the passing pagan night to favour dawn a frosted coat. And is quick in taking close the negligee and becoming Charon’s wife.
And yet the Phoenix rebirths diversifies the one intent so purpose as the Spaniard blanket hand before his steel tricks by sleight of hand the promise death. Turns the unresolved by resolution hand upon itself to suicide and school again.
And so, the zenith of the black does not appear will not give the flawless jewel beginning’s chance less the cause of all the living dies for never having death.
Azoth is the essential agent of transformation. It is the name given by ancient alchemists to Mercury, the animating spirit hidden in all matter that makes transmutation possible. As the Universal Life Force, Azoth is not only the animating energy (spiritus animatus) of all manifest forms of life, but also the inspiration and enthusiasm that moves incarnation intelligence. In the cosmos, and within each of us, Azoth is the mysterious evolutionary force responsible for the relentless drive towards physical and spiritual perfection. The line, ‘the Left of Azoth’s court ordained’ analogies the Universal Life Force as a Monarch, and the court of many forms which it manifests -all of which are appointed, and subject to the needs of the ‘Monarch’. Describing the court as having a Left (and a Right) purpose is giving it a negative (as opposed to positive) action. The Universal Life Force is a creator having the power to make and break, cause or complete, begin and end. The power of Life and Death. The perpetuating cycle of the Phoenix opposes the Left of Azoth’s court.
The weaver bending arms of twisted knotted yarns serves the loom and the loom a pattern makes. And bent upon the stool, his eyes direct upon the thread between weft and weave, his vision skips.
The shuttle smooth moves through the shed to the clack of treadles pressed; feeling more than seeing, every bone reactive To the rise and falling weaving shafts.
The sun arcs through the window overhead dying unnoticed in the west and in the cool unseen light of night, clouds arise to hide the stars. Bobbins twirling empty are replaced.
He labours not for kudos or for rates. As every yarn entwines it speaks; heddle and treadle selecting straighten out and the loom alive a drumming music makes.
Star and sun dance light within his bobbing head; the weavers’ needs are met, and the soul unfurls. Love that has a thousand-silent sounding ee’s Spins on to weave for all eternity.
[A writ to a jailer to produce a prisoner in person and to state the reasons of detention]
Soldier do your eyes have the lights that flash out of tanks in the face of the snub of a terrorist gun and in they shine when his message of soft lead erupts from the lips of a shimmering barrel?
Do they reanimate a frantic heart sick of your Karma, loosen the bowel; trigger the playback of loving regrets before the balance of blood is lost, spilling to the ground with slivers of lead?
Or soldier, did you die the night before in Believer’s Heaven, locked in the crotch of a dark haired Houri, filched so you thought from underneath Mohammed’s slippered feet; virgin and wanting your dissolution?
She perhaps, taking sap that trees the nerves before the five – first? Aids to earth exchanged for the bright sight of a plum on the breast! No doubt your bloodshot eyes and rising smoke wring a coupling promise from that climax.
You’re a crime soldier, you embarrassed the breach – you caused it release in black chamber the redness that wept the no time that takes time, sputter of pain; unrepentant, the lover at the head.
Soldier, the lipstick of blood is smudging your collar, face twists like a child’s’ first clay. Can you now see who judged and passed sentence on your innocence? Your slide is the breast. Soft lead, the mat of your down flowing river.
My love what cheerless world asleep in towered keeps and half-lit streets, waking dream on sullen skies ridged grey; Lay waste land and cause the grey weird sea chill the heart of you and me?
What world awoken from dreams of meadows, water mills, and painter’s scenes, would tolerate the angered sky, the leaf shorn tree; the frost that blights the first-born bud, above the half-closed mist born eye of love?
Oath of God would life not be worth living were love not rooted deep in giving? Selfish worlds are drunk, dreaming fantasy; such men are never found in sight crossing borders of the Christos Light.
Soft rose whose petal fusing heart will give attiring the sweetest heart to ever live, deliverance in the dawning day will come refusing the permanence of death, and arise to prove the cause of all the living never dies.
Photo by Jimmy Chan on Pexels.comListen as you read!
Granite Sliver Arrowhead I see you spurned by Pigmy Bowman yet you suffice and scathe the greening mortar… Mind that delibly records attempt my show and outward personality.
This ribbon of a madman’s weave is the tape of all my saying small border thin and compass hand the clutch and stay Fingers…. Placing granite slabs to face their palms of tungsten flesh toward the shortened eye.
Yet soon the tongue of this my wise and scrawl became as fever pitch and heavy as the hammer held halfway in arc deliberating as the mother would pressing down urging fingers in the lock of Isis eye to the agony that is mother And now is mine.
Is birth!
The warder had me carry seven days in labour waiting… before the fertilising seed became and his eye perceived the ribbon of wise inflicted with my word and writing.
He stared examined even to the letter head lost in mergence to the polished stone turning, smiled…. Father dimly smiling through the stain of glass in the you can never tell about face….
He left and straight informed the governor.
The hammer struck the child full born umbilical cut began to cry…. My eyes were full of faces demanding outstretching palms of tungsten flesh. Their right they screamed is feeding first why was I no askance waiting?
They spread upon my word the slime and their cement that matched the slab and then.. Fingers turned upon themselves they commanded- called my clutching hand to lease my living Scribe this chipping sliver of their granite.
They took.
…. that morning after before the ashen face nether time of wanting day whilst less the night there stood eight mourners neath the sky bowl blooding red in their caps of prison grey and the circle turning tribute was the sower spreading quicklime.
And in my cell
There stood another waiting for the shining mortar’s greening mould.
There are some words in this poem you may not be familiar with. In order of mention they are as follows: Hur: Is the name given to the inner core of planet Earth -the primary source of matter and mind root from which Earth developed. Aster: Is the name of a large planet in the Milky Way which exploded and gave birth to our solar system. Fohat: Is the animating principle electrifying every atom into life. During the process of manifestation, it is the cosmic energy which produces differentiation of primordial cosmic matter to form the different forms of consciousness, therefore Fohat is the link between Spirit and Matter, subject and object. The twice & thrice born person addressed by the creator in the last stanza should not be regarded as a pattern of reincarnation, rather they describe a process of soul reformation. Twice-born is earthly reformation, Thrice-born is heavenly reformation. This kind of reformation can otherwise be defined as ‘the camel able to pass through the eye of a needle’.
And so to the poem….You can listen to it here….
The story I am about to tell began before the first ammonite hardened its shell, before your blackheart mountains were rivers of red and swims of clear water had not yet fallen as rain; before even Hur was cast into Hell and the soporific dust that held prison his might had yet to be formed from the celestial storm of Aster’s last embrace with the stars.
Where Love was lost….
Love is forever becoming; the moment of life poised unto death, born in the heart existing apart from all that you know. Priceless, unreachable, mysterious Self.
The rarest of jewels….
The story I tell begins before tongue, before the screech, the roar, and the hissing of elements embattled to make of themselves creational worlds and Fohat had yet to cause It has no meaning to you twice-born until I caused life to know death. After the cooling Earth formed crust and the sulphurous clouds ceased their circle, there I took lung from the water and filled it with air. After cooling, and the first trees had breathing leaves
souls were born….
Light encrusted with matter in hope of Salvation, Fish, fowl, amphibia, and latterly beasts. Yes, they were soul born; amoebic hopes that by tempest, fire, and the heat of ice evolved by birth and death in every season. Taking as when taking must; leaving be, not having when having was no need. Yes, I was well pleased with progress however, success has its own undoing, Light separated from the Seeds of Soul. I should have known, identifying Myself with creation -the cause is of Me and the cause is unrepentant.
The cause became two -two became three Mind became Matter, Matter became mind….
And so, twice-born, soon to be thrice, many times born of my wheel forming heaven and sired by the captive imprisoned Hur, there’s no end to your becoming until I cease. Light and Matter will then achieve peace.
The sheen of folded draperies warm resplendent curves of your bronze bright body. Your smile an ever present remembrance, suggest joyous eyes that never weep.
Through the meagre apertures of half-hid windows, blue skies burst and grow their light upon your breast, the stilled image grasping at my loins evoking half-lit fantasies
never dreamt of in your head. Your strange unnatural silence rather than offending, draws me trance-like to your wood framed world. My staring -your silence
causes the consciousness I feel to achieve in this encounter the bewilderment of knowing; you in the painting, the self twice known I in my shell. a pearl-like stone.
Many times have I sat by the water mill in the damp grass and in the dry feasting my body upon the wheel splash slaking my senses; worshipping buttercup crowns and primrose groves, my mind free to landscape and sky dream knowing that havens are hard to come by; impermanent places.
Coming here when the seasons are fair and the beech woods sing with bird talk; caressing my ear with their melodies giving soul reformation. Observing the change of winter scarred trees, knuckles of soft bark renewing torn limbs the buds of new boughs appearing; without proclamation.
It saddens me to see the mill is deserted the paddles seized by chickweed and gorse, the stream gentle and ebbing away through watercress meadows. The miller who might have been head of the stream, Keeper and Dam Builder has powdered his hand between the mill stones, the last yield of flour having long since departed.
The curious have bought the tack of cob horses, Coriander grows in the cart ruts. The gate is unhinged and the mill purse empty of men. I see green lichen eat the smooth stone oak lintels sag over moss covered frames, and I am entranced by design, composition and colour –and wonder
what plants have rooted and grown in this silent omnivorous world, that will seize on my house, empty my purse and feed on my bone?
Last night my instant mind wraith like uncoiled its luminous head and like all good mysteries left my body in bed, warm to the skin of my spouse. Unsuspected left the house, passing through walls and other substantial things seeking no byway to celebrate freedom, vision only for the ubiquitous presence of a troubled friend.
Finding the dark and humourless shell where colours are pale, and sounds deep as if heard from a well. In this house where the cry escaped and reached my ears beside my mate I see a soul in hibernation, a maelstrom of movement in which may be seen pain of intruders eschewing the Spirit, a legion of wants suppressing need the ache of a body seeking to balance in favour of peace, no matter the price or the length of the lease.
I am radiation a golden cascade a silver-winged creature, sensing soothing the troubled dark shade. Cleansing, creating, and fulfilling a vow commanding the sepulchre revive its undead. Holding the breathing unconscious sweet soul until life brightness stems from the spine and flows from the head.
United therein, harmony prevails purpose and will rebirthed she is no longer alone. I dissolve from her presence and seek my own bed. Returning to self through sickness and doubt lying awake, afraid and diminished a frantic heart upon a humourless bed, until music from the night shores comforts my head and I sleep the sleep of one who is dead.
Cold turn my putty blue and let me leave my sorry self-appointed imposition state of Senilità, this shadow of my footstep fear Frankenstein of my conceit of whom I aped in sweeter note as the satire sword when I was prentice of this night.
Tis the bruise upon my apple fallen, Brutus to my Caesar, the malformed child made conscious. And by my expertise I have the life-long-game of chess made stalemate whose colours now reveal no substance fiction belly laughing shallow truth.
All my fear is Senilità a thousand-tickling tales of doubt the smallest part of virile statement easy come by. The battery of baseless facts that made me man are the powdered leaves of a selfish summer. Now the water of my close is mixed the question of you do after death has burnt this mess of pottage and shaped me as the begging bowl.
Senilità You shame of all the Y man sought accepted scar and the weeping priest mortal made immortal bishop, Pharisee of double mean-less vision. To the monastery of children there confess with ease nonchalance of being server to the weeping priest of being Senilità.
Here by the speak of unripe fact sick the swelling puffing yeast the husk of all your learning home to Babel and name it grandeur of the Pharisee. Let your toothless cringing face be the symbolled skull cross-boned school of level thought and one horizon.
No -never I cannot as tears as negative I am the six-aged one life yes man cry wolf again, charge the greater part of me to war. I be the autumn of the shortest summer making where to start my cyclopaedic book of error.
………….. In the no start never finish real of the spark
Listen as you read!
Ah! The pain the wanting all over dilemma sober reach out sweet grape of confusion; a duchess spread out on her savage’s bed willing her blood red to the lips of her lackeying male, neither caring the speech or the stain of his whip. Taking the seventh of her seconding breaths at the weep of secretion.
Comes now the concentration; the apex of arc, the long-drawn laugh of the physical man. The peak, then the plummet of an up thrown stone; extinguishing fire. Then the cold Darkness of Earth and then the winter of a why gloom face frosting the smile of devil cares not into peaceful beginning; a child in the low of the arc, weak murmur of problem.
And yet in end it begins; in the no start never finish real of the spark, in the still heard gasp mute echo of Psi fleeing the white. In the good die young the crude soldier damning as with the devils and the un-vowed nun; the same design. All blind fisherman in the day-night casting pearls from the corporeal banks of unsettled sublimity.
It manifests as harpoon with a white heat line; the strongest plus and minus seed. All charge of the instrument cannon, Time Traveller to the state of perpetual climax; there as the spear of the deepest descent. The finder receiving the arranged and irrevocable choice the twin of sex; Satan-Father coalesced.
Cool waters imprisoned mass of colouration say fie now- sediment, syringe of my Elixir. Fie! Laugh you now the life is drawn to drinking state of Christos?
I left your immobility with the sigh of my becoming.
Whose reason called the crack of dawn my death?
Shadow barren of my love keep the silver of that State spend it on the flowers of your grave.
Creature after calling Solomon to testify himself keep your hammer inside your sarcophagus.
I remember roses imitations of the fire reflecting on the cheeks my last winter’s face crinkled with the onward coming Retribution-
that my lazy legs were faults of not attending church saw my Book the dog-eared blotted one
but even then
the coin of sailors slang would gutter sing the spit of my petulance leave me shrunk a little more to child.
And the roses I remember from the fire were the devil shadows beckoning.
Now I see you muted shell as the illusion of my living
Lie mirror!
I, the silver of your backing leave you transparent. You cannot fix my soul or image me in time.
Bubble -you have burst Fie! Fie! I am in sight of no horizons I am the Minister
Pray hard for the men who hunt the deep sea in their cockleshell boats out of Clyde who scour the cold swims of Poseidon’s green head filling iced holds with dead alive-eyes. Where the North wind screech is God’s angered ethereal Hand, and fear is the shake of worn riveted plate and Love is a church locked up on the land.
Elemental wind do not keep them from shore They who dare open the water blue door.
Pray strong for men who haunt the cod swims Hymned only by the white garish moon and wind-snatched callings of seabirds scorning. Skins scolded eyes shrunk in the Arctic blast laughing as the pawls judder and grind heaving the trawl, engine complaining. Who love the deep sea with a savagery spit, swear, and piss in the lee.
Elemental wind do not rage for their souls their fathers have paid the fish stealing tolls.
Pray love for the sons of water and blood, patient for the calm, eager to net and ever ready to chase the white fish over mountainous crests, under the pale dark bruising wet sky. Casting net to web Gods’ octopus head clawing the fish from his shivering throat, their lives threatened by the weight of the prize.
Elemental wind, do not anger the sea Man and his mistress must ever be free.
In muddy mouthed Portsea Creek unwatched forgotten ships lay beached and breathless, dashed and smashed cut and bled, weather beaten, picked and broken by the dockside stooping crane’s bill collecting scrap.
Their final journeys over shallows dragging barnacle crusted bottoms over shingle groaned past the red flagged gunnery range, pulled and pushed by impatient tugs, aware falling tides and sucking mud claim victims.
Robbed by landsman, written out of registers, church empty bridges balefully glistening glare untold stories of once purposed lives, men who swore repeatedly like lovers on heat, trumpeting the union of engine and steel.
Now their ghosts can be heard in the small of the night blowing base horns, heaving anchors, turning their screws seaward, reliving purpose, blending rusted hulls to the sea and the never ending sky.
If you are not already aware -be warned, writing poetry is addictive. You may like me have other writing skills prose-like, non-fiction, fiction, or faction. If you get hooked on writing a poem, in your heart of hearts you know you cannot finish it until it’s a work of art -that means every word must count, they must be the right words, and the poem must be more than words alone convey.
It’s addictive because we can never be sure we have achieved, not only birthed but given long life to the piece.
In many years of ‘garret writing’ there’s one difficult lesson which must be learnt, that is -don’t file it in the pending tray, publish the damn thing, because art is an evolutionary process. Pieces do not mature into art if they remain stuck in your mind. The blank sheet of paper is only terrifying when the mind is still hosting ‘unfinished’ poems.
After you post it’s gone from your mind -later perhaps you might unpublish and rework. My experience tells me the piece gets better, and ….. and ….. it might also be unworkable -possibly a work of art!
Mine Quick Voice of Aquarius 