What is poetry?
Said the page
Black ink sinking squid juice into bleached fibres of fallen trees to type the phrase
Trite and clichéd
but it amazed me none the less
What is poetry?
Is it just ancient verses rehearsed by avid fanatics of Whitman, Shakespeare and Frost?
A talent lost to the dead
Frozen solid rocks inside dusty heads
A pallid echo bouncing off the memories of men
Whose genius cannot live again
Lost if not for pens which
Flickered like candlelight to fight the darkness of their time
Will we ever find such greatness in the
Tescos checkout line?
Will the butcher start to slap the slab and feel the beat grab his soul, marbled verses carved into the cold pages of meat slices at deli prices?
Could the rustle of plastic bags drag a single mother from the bustle of her day to consider the way words twist themselves like crispy kale?
Could the price of crusty bread on sale fail to capture the thrust of her mammoth imaginings syllables snapping like bubble wrap
tapping her fingers
She never lingers on mumbling phrases
but blazes on
tumbling with speed through each verse
Cursing that bleeding ink on paper does no justice to her cries
Her sighs are of traffic lights
And sleepless nights
and nappy changes and the happy bubbles of spit that sit on the edge of her daughters smiling gums
She runs through grocery lists and ticks off kitchen roll and aubergines
Poetry is her daily routine
Or is poetry the rapper with his words a knife
Slashing his opponent with a cutting slice
of victory
Sweeter than a piece of pie
Apple cinnamon crust melting
The face off his best friend
Turned enemy for the fight
Biting the ends of sentences
Throwing his weight around the cage
And unleashing his rage at the pig who pushed him down on the deck
At the barrel of the gun at his neck threatening
One swift click to the end of the road
His teeth are loaded with bullets
Heckles high, he reckons at least he’ll die with dignity
Words might be his coffin
But like Byron his lips birth love, laced in beauty and wit
A poem spit for a king
Ringing out funeral bells from the places he once called home
Immortalized tomes of verse and rhythm
Freed from their mortal prison
Maybe it’s the unspoken cry
Of a child who always wondered why it’s
Easier to run and hide than to
Stand with pride and brand yourself a fool
Bruises blooming but assuming
That love looks like black and blue
Language learned from wrinkled lips
Soured by the bitter drips of dissapointment
They speak their shame in narrowed eyes
Lies placing constant blame
Til compliments are prizes to be won
Always forgot when the deed is done
So eloquence rises like cream to the top
A quiet dream of words that could stop
The loose slap of the belt
That melts resolve like butter
And turns a stanza into a shudder
What is poetry?
Asked the paper I crumpled
Under angry stares like red pens slashing through the page
Crashing my course before I could even rumple up some sage answer
It could be just
The clack of knitting needles
The back of the queue
The roar of applause
A chink in the fence
The fight for a lost cause
A drink with a friend
A sharp jerk of the steering wheel
Or the silence you feel when you finally reach
the end.
Claire LeMaster 