23 March 2008


Too late, I suppose,
to define what is deemed
the joy of connecting
with another mind
in a poetic phrase
pregnant with meaning.

I know that for most
the exercise is seen best
as a trial by expression,
an exorcism of passions
pressed from the maelstrom
of a seething core.

If it is pure, and the
mind is at rest, cured
by a lessening of pressure –
that which is birthed
regardless will be deemed
the essence of verse.

And in a sense it is – less
artistic hand guiding sentence
and syntax to forms blessed
by the eye, investing rhythms
which glide, connecting minds
in allegorical rhyme.

But it is in no-man’s land,
neither here nor there,
orphaned just short of a christening,
nameless and bereaved
before an inevitable
sentence to death.
© 21 March 2008, I. D. Carswell