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Saturday, March 06, 2010

The Omnipotence of Poetry


                  show me your poetry
you had asked me once,
and I had placed your hand
on my caged heart, whispering
                  how the word poetry
came from the Greek for making;
poetry is making,
I breathed on your skin,

poetry is creating, talking, moving,
seeing, and believing:
poetry is everything
                  you laughed as I tried again:
poetry is whatever you seek,
it's whatever you find

we're making some poetry
of the best kind
, and I smiled,
                  had reached out to touch you,
clipped fingernails skating on your unclipped skin:
tracing my energy through
                  to make some poetry with you:

you had undressed a smile this time
in its most sensuous guise:
                  are you making poetry now? you asked,
I'm reading you out loud, I said,
bookmarking the look in your eyes;
a favourite site
                  to keep in the extensions
of a studious mind,

as I tried to make you see
how poetry isn't merely
words on paper, but emotions peeling
through touchpaper skin,
                  when two are composed
in harmony they can
rival the greatest poem
in the world -

poetry is about making
the spiritual physical,
of making the paper flesh
and its words into bone,
making air breathe
and bringing words
back to their home,

moving in ways, in words
they never knew they knew
I said, but you didn't truly believe me,
so -
                  anything can be poetry
I went on, even the way you
look at me
, and you
had smiled then as though
this was some come on,
                  as though you were an ocean
and I wanted to strip to bathe
in your sea, and yet I persisted
with the pulling tides in me
to explain more on
the omnipotence of poetry:


poetry is only the making
of a certainty
, I said,
                  it can take any form,
if only you're brave enough
to believe -
                  we can make
some of greatest poetry ever known

and you were still uncertain,
as though not sure
of what I wanted to achieve,
                  I leant close to smell
your closeness on my skin,
how the smell intensified,
                  like reading out poetry gets you closer

I wanted to push open a door
between us
offering an openness
that had not been there before:

poetry is the heartbeat
in you, in me,
in humanity, it is as honest
                  as the pulse that beats
in the thread of me
that unravels with each reading

I had stretched out then
in my speaking, took your hand
in a final strand of mine,
                  and you suddenly reached out
and kissed me, looking at me

as though I had pulled you through
from the other side;
you finally understood me
and the deliverance of poetry,

and you laid back bare
your unclipped skin,
inviting me further in,
                  your eyes reached out to me
with that bookmarked look:
                  show me your poetry
you said; and moving my pen to write
I had replied gladly.

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