Once I vanish into an opening line, words follow on their own without so much as an umbrella or a newspaper to keep them dry. Notebook paper, damp with moisture, fills with runnels, and ink flows freely toward the edges. Pages glisten with a sheen, sleek and grey as a chrome bumper lost in a carpark I cannot remember. Off in the distant haze of early evening, cathedral bells toll vespers, my inky fingers moving counterpoint to words falling like prayer. O Joyful Light!
You are like the Pied Piper of words, Paul, summoning them to come to you, to follow you through sun or rain, and it seems like a mysterious holy act that brings it own share of light. This is another really fine poem.
Personal Commentary on “Vespers” by Paul Wittenberger
“Vespers” speaks to something I’ve felt but rarely seen put into words: that moment when writing becomes less an act of will and more a quiet surrender. The poem opens with a kind of disappearance—“Once I vanish into an opening line…”—and I recognize that feeling. It’s the moment when thought dissolves and the pen moves almost independently, as if the words have been waiting for me to get out of the way.
The imagery of rain and damp notebook paper resonates deeply. There’s something beautifully chaotic about writing in a storm—literal or emotional. The ink bleeding toward the edges feels like a metaphor for vulnerability, for letting the messiness of feeling spill beyond the lines. It’s not tidy, but it’s real.
That line about the “chrome bumper lost in a carpark I cannot remember” stopped me. It’s such a perfect encapsulation of memory—how we hold onto fragments, flashes, glints of something that once mattered, even if the context is gone. It reminds me of moments I’ve tried to write about but couldn’t fully grasp—like chasing reflections in a puddle.
And then the bells tolling vespers. That’s where the poem shifts from observation to reverence. The act of writing becomes spiritual, almost liturgical. “My inky fingers moving counterpoint to words falling like prayer”—it’s a stunning image. It suggests that writing isn’t just expression; it’s communion. A way of aligning the inner world with something greater.
The final line—“O Joyful Light!”—feels like a benediction. It’s not just the end of a poem; it’s the release, the gratitude, the moment of clarity after the storm. It reminds me that even in the mess, even in the forgetting, there’s beauty. There’s light.
The Best to you, Paul,
Simply Richard
—
Postscript:
This poem doesn’t just describe writing—it feels like writing. And in reading it, I’m reminded why I return to the page: not to control, but to be carried.
Thank you for sharing your thoughts on this poem. Once again, I was trying to “write the moment” as best as I could. Most of these moments come when I am caught by a first line, and the rest then follows without much effort at all. I can’t really explain the process, but it’s the one I trust. I’m happy you shared your experiences, Richard. Thank you again.
I also write from an opening sentence. Then it seems that my hand is guided by something I don't know, that I haven't mastered, stronger than a shout and as gentle as a breeze that invades me. Some call it the soul, others call it God, I call it the miracle of human creativity
Thanks for commenting, Rolando. Once I find the sentence, I trust the process, whatever you want to call it. However, finding the sentence is sometimes more difficult.
You are like the Pied Piper of words, Paul, summoning them to come to you, to follow you through sun or rain, and it seems like a mysterious holy act that brings it own share of light. This is another really fine poem.
Once I vanish
into an opening line,
words follow
on their own
without so much
as an umbrella
or a newspaper
to keep them dry.
I’m not certain I’m summoning the words or whether they are summoning me., Martin, but I thank you for your comment!
Absolutely agree with you Martin :) so well put!
Thank you, Nimita!
Thank you to @Marisa for sharing this
My thanks to @J.M.S. Tanjim for the restack 😊
Good morning, @Deni, and thank you for restacking this.
Thanks to @Diane’s Blue Forum for restacking this 💙💙
💙
My thanks to @Ross Ion Coyle for sharing this.
You're welcome 🙏
Thanks to @Ene for the restack
It is my pleasure, @Paul Wittenberger.
Joyful light as vespers prayers spoken follow one word at a time as rays clasp beams and shine on the earth sending silence of peace to the world .
I still hear the bells tolling the hours at the local Episcopal cathedral, Richard.
Thanks for reading and commenting.
My joy is yours as bells ring an appeal to call followers of an higher order to say a prayer in their own spoken word.
All are called, Richard—I hope they will answer!
Another beautiful offering. Thanks, Paul.
Thank you, Mary, for reading and commenting and for your continued support. I’m grateful.
Saturday, K1R 6X1
August 16, 2025. 18:11
My dearest Paul,
Personal Commentary on “Vespers” by Paul Wittenberger
“Vespers” speaks to something I’ve felt but rarely seen put into words: that moment when writing becomes less an act of will and more a quiet surrender. The poem opens with a kind of disappearance—“Once I vanish into an opening line…”—and I recognize that feeling. It’s the moment when thought dissolves and the pen moves almost independently, as if the words have been waiting for me to get out of the way.
The imagery of rain and damp notebook paper resonates deeply. There’s something beautifully chaotic about writing in a storm—literal or emotional. The ink bleeding toward the edges feels like a metaphor for vulnerability, for letting the messiness of feeling spill beyond the lines. It’s not tidy, but it’s real.
That line about the “chrome bumper lost in a carpark I cannot remember” stopped me. It’s such a perfect encapsulation of memory—how we hold onto fragments, flashes, glints of something that once mattered, even if the context is gone. It reminds me of moments I’ve tried to write about but couldn’t fully grasp—like chasing reflections in a puddle.
And then the bells tolling vespers. That’s where the poem shifts from observation to reverence. The act of writing becomes spiritual, almost liturgical. “My inky fingers moving counterpoint to words falling like prayer”—it’s a stunning image. It suggests that writing isn’t just expression; it’s communion. A way of aligning the inner world with something greater.
The final line—“O Joyful Light!”—feels like a benediction. It’s not just the end of a poem; it’s the release, the gratitude, the moment of clarity after the storm. It reminds me that even in the mess, even in the forgetting, there’s beauty. There’s light.
The Best to you, Paul,
Simply Richard
—
Postscript:
This poem doesn’t just describe writing—it feels like writing. And in reading it, I’m reminded why I return to the page: not to control, but to be carried.
-30-
Thank you for sharing your thoughts on this poem. Once again, I was trying to “write the moment” as best as I could. Most of these moments come when I am caught by a first line, and the rest then follows without much effort at all. I can’t really explain the process, but it’s the one I trust. I’m happy you shared your experiences, Richard. Thank you again.
Falling as a prayer... ⚡
Lovely writing, Paul. You brought us right there. To that solitary, personal, sacred place.
Thank you, Siodhna. Have a lovely Saturday afternoon and evening!
Both the rain and the words wash you clean
Oh, I like that, Patris. Thank you!
Just beautiful and so very vivid!
Thank you for reading and commenting, Nora!
What a light, inspiring process of creating poems, and the result is like an evening prayer. Beautiful!
Thank you, Larisa!
Gentle, Paul, and capturing the mystery of our own small miracles of creation.
Sometimes a prayer. Sometimes a curse. Sometimes an act of love.
D
Whatever we have to create with at the moment, David. Thank you
I also write from an opening sentence. Then it seems that my hand is guided by something I don't know, that I haven't mastered, stronger than a shout and as gentle as a breeze that invades me. Some call it the soul, others call it God, I call it the miracle of human creativity
Thanks for commenting, Rolando. Once I find the sentence, I trust the process, whatever you want to call it. However, finding the sentence is sometimes more difficult.