If that is the etiquette I must have missed
the lesson which preceded it, I must have
been adrift again – away at sea with words
and dreams and poetry.
Machinations of a madhouse filled with
troubled minds that shout their demons
down in public places wearing many faces
using words as clubs to batter victims of
supposed maligned and puerile forms of
unhinged rage (disguised as poetry) has
greeted me on my return. To say the least
I am amazed; to say the worst I am ablaze
with righteous indignation, sickened and
beyond a lay redemption – then I spent
some time in reading poetry from friends
whose calming words were soothing balm.
It’s not an end but a beginning they say,
and showed me how with gentle urgings to
ward the bile, train the eye; seeking style,
soaring featherlike and free on metaphor,
drinking cogent imagery, finding more
than just the vicious cuts of brutal words
demeaned in texts riddled with crude
and unredeemed invective.
Find poetry first they said, in form, drink
with eyes embracing curves. Hear the
rhythms, feel the passion’s beat. Then
read the words.
© 5 June 2007, I.D. Carswell
No comments:
Post a Comment