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Thursday, January 29, 2009

Writing Sounds

Writing Sounds

Talk Poetry


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.


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.


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.



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 2004-18. Unless otherwise stated all poetry, prose and art are the original work of the blog owner.