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Thursday, January 29, 2009

Writing Sounds

Writing Sounds

Talk Poetry

i

What a fragile idea of classics
is poetry -- its popularity
might never sell to the masses
well or easily enough to
want to walk in its molasses --

but if you ignore poetry, it will
ignore you to write on the backs
of your shoulders; for its
readers are like time travellers
browsing the richest history

of a poet's inner life --
there we lucky few trek
possibly lost in a sonnet,
a momentary, momentous sense
of malaise or fulfilment,

or the severe contemporariness
of a lament that razes insensate.

ii

What a visceral experience
is poetry -- a violent
facial scrub or two,
or sometimes an anthology
of the kapow, punch-written with

the excitement of the new and now,
occasionally setting foot
in the future, too -- or
sometimes a diluted elixir
of an earlier age, rhythmical

in idiom, in animation,
in images, a sage of words
full of far-off suggestion,
meditations on the world,
voices mingling in double meanings

or brash miasmal modernity,
making words sound strange.

iii

What a bridging leap of syne
is poetry -- a jump
from meter to time,
or thought to thought
as stars out of our range,

twinkling afar like
nursery rhymes of childhood --
for real poetry is like children,
forever developing, or like
the love we seek, found flirting

with experience and inspiration,
kneaded and pounded by life --
until our play dough
puffs out with its own force
to shape words we may not know,

or to make us understand ourselves
and the purpose of our flow.

______________________

Spadework

the poet is buried deep in our earth,
ploughing the same furrow
of field, soberly, or excitedly,
always with a passion
for the season's yield

of final metaphors that sprout
with the poet's pen -- hand or mechanical --
digging up meaning like a spade;
the literal takes shade under the lateral
tree that catches whispers

in its leaves -- the shhh,
and the whuuuh of sounds --
simple onomatopoeic symbols that ring
as poetry read aloud in a human voice,
mingling with ponderous rejoice --

the poet gets to work in light and dark,
the many shades of a day within
earthy frames where some toil towards
the edges of monologue, while others dig
far beyond, to let language run away

from the everyday into
unexpected meanings, impressing
a passionate and satirical
incantation of language to grow
and flesh out our bones.

______________________

Birth, Love, Poetry

opening minds
to different destinies,
laying life out
in an open dictionary,
words of this world

leading to others unknown;

poetry comes like birth
and love: machinations of sound
naked and bare,
in pain and agony, and
in its own time --

to make itself known.

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© CC License 2004-14. Unless otherwise stated all poetry, prose and art are the original work of the blog owner.