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Friday, July 25, 2014

The Earth of Poetry

Lovers reading poems by river

i       I never saw a crumb of earth that did not
take the water deep inside to suckle
its breast milk; or the moon refuse
to reflect the luminescence of sun
with the iridescence of silvered silk;

and I never saw any mind that did not
take to poetry in the fullness of time:
       to read poetry you don't need a brain
that understands, just a heart that feels
when you don't make straight sense of it,

let your ears soak up the sounds in
the breath of it; hear how in every
first verse of every soliloquy of sound
your context changes its words a bit,
like twins living in different worlds,

one may mean what the other may not,
even though the sounds may sound the same;
for what it means to you may not read
that way to another: and what it needs
of you is no other than a moment to tame,

to see what it has captured for you;
       and I sometimes believe to read poetry
is to be human: (I'd read somewhere once
about mentally harmed people and poetry,
how it helped some to heal) passages rewiring

passages in the brain, verses filling
vessels in some way not understood,
but felt most fundamental, as water
seeps in soil, and the sun gives life
to even the darkest of darkest night;

ii       poems are bulbs to illuminate or sow
or give weight, balanced on the tightrope
we tiptoe; we just need to open the door
and walk through and not worry who's who:
       try to read aloud what you think it means,

for it will mean something you know,
unless of course you're of those exceptions
who cannot understand poetry at all:
       for a reader does need human emotions
like remorse to feel anything at all;

and their poetical disability isn't in being
mentally challenged, but mentally broken,
a sickness of mind that cannot know neither
compassion nor compunction, walking numbly
on the precipice of perdition, their mind

a bottomless pit, where they lose
themselves the minute they step into it;
for the thoughts they hold have no rooms
with light bulbs, or plots of earth
that grow with the life it speaks;

for poetry is real life you see;
it brings clarity to truth, it will even
get you dirty, because life isn't always clean;
sometimes emotions demean the heart
and punch out its pieces, sometimes they dream

such worlds that they steal a part
of you to no more hold the narrow view
that suffocate the syllables in you;
a lineal, de-lineal love affair
of metered lines and free verse

iii       where you see all words as your family;
and some, like swear words are a minority we try
to hide from polite company, but it's a form of racism:
they need to be used, not only for colour and effect
but because they reflect their take on life

and all its facets of their reality;
and then there are some words I would
never entertain easily, for we've blackened
them too deeply, our evils engraved into
the discriminations they give name to;

and for me to use them would be like
bringing a criminal home to meet
victims with no possible reconciliation
or forgiveness of the crimes done;
for how can a psychopath feel remorse

when they are mentally moulded
to feel none? and poetry puts you
on show with the words you hold
acquaintance with, and they mark you
with the company you keep; and sleep:

       with words dragging along their meanings
as excess baggage, their histories follow
as ours do, mercilessly in tow, until
a next generation make it their own
and change the meanings into something new;

and poetry is also a test of strength
to exercise the mind; to show whether we
are strong or weak to what lips innocently
speak, the guilty may find fault with;
their derogatory connotations imbued over

iv       to you; or to discover how the mistakes
we make can lead to the most interesting
of discoveries themselves; of different
combinations of union and divisions;
under the breast of soil that suckles

on waters that run deep, what seeds
sown by which hand will take to grow?
what word, with what sentence, what
grammatical breath of deliverance
will give you the sense that moves

in your own sequence of meaning?
for poetry unravels your genetic
propensity for pattern and mystery,
for the sound of beauty and
the fertility of breathing

that fills your body with a touch
of feeling that flows to a source
ever-flowing, overflowing in its course
to do the will of life coursing
through the veins of living;

for I never saw a moon that did not
take the light deep inside to suckle
its breast milk; or the earth refuse
to eclipse the luminescence of sun
with the iridescence of silvered silk;

and I never saw any mind that did not
take to poetry in the rhyming of a line:
       to read poetry you don't need a brain
that understands, just a heart that heals
when at first you don't make use of time.

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