Handmaiden of creativity

The hand strikes,

And we awaken once more.

Our thoughts have feet, but,

Before mixing the day’s lather

There’s hope they will yet gather.

What was it Eliot said

Of creative Anxiety?

Destroying mental sobriety,

It demands a certain piety.

Brutal in disposition,

Scarcely do we acknowledge

Its true capacity.

Now up and about,

This burning feeling, just behind the eyes,


‘Onward!’ she shouts,

‘Ours is no time for pause;

Too much unknown; too little sown,

To strike a conciliatory tone.’

Pulled out to the frontier, a plea:

‘We did not ask to be taken;

To have our peace forsaken.

What, really, of this rumination?’

‘This is life’s natural station;

The pursuit of mindful elation.

If one is to move, herein lies the answer.’

‘But, wait…’ protests


‘Time present and time past—neither secures us.’

‘And in the insecurity of movement, discovery.’


Aeden Pillai, KL.