Friday, 21 April 2017

A Poem is


A collection of bird’s eggs,
nestling in cracking colours and blown.
A shoal of coral fish turning in a flash
of emotion in the instant of an eye.
A tray of butterflies pinned in dust,
bereft in the dusk of death.
In the seam of words, mined and picked
in the lamplight of mind, by my hand
says the poet in the pocket of a poet,
just fine, and now they are mine.

The hooks of words hang the flesh
to sit ageing on the lines of the pen.
For grains of gold the arid dunes are sieved,
prospecting for the glint in their eyes.
The facets of a jewel down the cataracts
of thought, electrified and executed,
yet alive to the words that have to be said.

So many words to juggle and fall
scattered, gyrating and honed,
to sit forever in the mosaic of a poem.
The butterfly suns and bat moons pirouette,
until netted and metamorphosed into the
sedimentary strata of a poem, poised
to unleash that seismic event - I see!

Each word tweezed, and placed,
and tilted and in turn entwined.
Betrothed, one unto the other.
The embroidery of glossy words shines
as the story unfolds in perpetuity.
Gossamer webs spun and peopled,
trapped and bound.
The poet's neurones penetrate the reader's
guts and spill their feelings on the floor.
Their haruspicy preordained by the words.
Fossils re-fossilised.
Spinners re-spun, lures lured.
The crystal ball inverted looks out.
A mirror shard of a mirror shorn,
echoes in the mind, and calling back implores:
you saw, and I can see what you saw.
The chains forged in your smithy say it all.
The words linked and welded,
annealed and melded in thought.
I think the link is what I think.
So, lay it before me now and go.
Now let me see ...

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