ROUGH DRAFT ON STATIONERY
(You said:
what is poetry?)
a rain........the
smell of earth........a wet beginning
...the patience of the mind........an afternoon's white cumuli
leaves shaken loose........a colourful fall........finishing
...the fear of nakedness........a long chill........silence
a need of presence........the instances of the I hold years
...and seconds........exiled
bodies of ideas surge to accuse
the unversed judge of stinginess...........and
steel their way
...through age-old blasphemies toward new........common places
the way to us........I cross a landscape that induces
...trivial dreams........with
hills of hope........plains of
expectancy........a lake un-rippling........and the image of high
...trees reflected in it........the deep........the
leaves........seek listening
as we seek to be seen
. .
. .the
strikingly close
...flight of gulls .
. .
.......is like a frank laugh at our lying
by the Muse . .
. .o air
uncensored . .
. .fingers of
a deep
...sun .
. .
.touch midday adulthood
. .
. .crack the
moulds
of yes or no........while for the feel of a brilliant pregnancy
...I venture to descend........I know there is a child
nameless and illegitimate........and his first
healthy screaming will wake
the world to her and our own obviousness
we live........& struggle for consent........... & gain a language........lose
...another one........and
die........and breaking our taboos break
everybody's........poetry includes a pause in
its resounding
...reasoning........it
is that which abandoned us
...... and what we owe our friends