Poesy
What is a poem ?
A rising confluence ?
A boiling spot where
emotions and ideas
meet and spill over into
imagination's flood
to form a mesh of words
shored against
the backdrop wall
of the mind's eye?
Or possibly a bunch of gathered thoughts,
Scooped up as you walked along
for days and days,
The hedgerows thronging with them.
You come back in to sit,
The quiet of the kitchen pungent
with the abundant bunches which
tumble and scatter in your attempt
to put them down.
There they lie,
Itinerant discordants,
Jostling for position,
Bedraggled things,
That you fumble to arrange
in some loose knit way.
Write a list before
you write it down ;
- Bath mats
(for your grown-up child),
plus other things you'd like to buy
to prop her up because
you feel she cannot exist upright
without you.
(How quaint.
How funny.
When she's wondering how
to make you feel ok
about her absence
on her birthday ) .
Now turn the paper over
and compose,
This poem;
Some words to prop me up,
To make me feel an
adult on the occasion of
my daughters' 20th birthday.
A poem as crutch,
As wondering,
And thinking about.
As proxy,
and love itself,
Words to quell,
To soothe,
To expiate,
To visualise.
A list of things,
A kind of spell,
That makes a posy
for a birthday.
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