I have felt estranged from poetry recently. Not so much by choice as by capacity and I’ve not written. Today, however, I was listening to Harry Baker perform “Weston-Super-Nightmare” here http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p034jyb9?ns_mchannel=social&ns_campaign=bbc_radio_4&ns_source=twitter&ns_linkname=radio_and_music and it got me writing.
I feel the need of poetry
Hearing words strung together so rhythmically
I recall poems of strangers whose tales have undone me
as their voices melodically took shape within me.
I cannot explain, if you do not feel,
what it is that makes sense of this.
I cannot heroically stand before you
and deliver the words of genius
their recitation that prophetically
tells stories of the ordinary.
I’ve listened to tales of failed loved,
hairy men and dinosaurs
of elicit encounters,
love described as a walk on beaches;
of bodies and birds and things more absurd
and I am humbled more by every verse and meter.
Who am I to somehow bring together
all the things that make me wonder.
While I feel I can never aspire to such linguistic heights.
sometimes my words themselves conspire and give me hope.