Sunday, January 1, 2012

We Are the Poem

Can you hear it?
We are the poem
It is in our water in our voices streaming its rhythm in our temples beating
It is the dreaming, the metre beats through the soles of our feet in the earth beneath us
Our eyes following birds through sun blushed skies brushed by the flames of beach bonfires
It is holding hands; it is first kisses
3am conversations and shooting star wishes
It is music it is here
As light as babies’ laughter and as dense as old men’s cellared tears
It danced like prayers on Plato’s lips as he rested
The poem is in the way she sways her hips when she walks,
The way the sun sheens as he lays bricks bare-chested

You are the poem
You are a symbol, you are meaning
Each of us a line
Together we make tight stanzas
Can’t you hear the way we rhyme
When our vowels arc electric across our lips
Can’t you hear the way we rhyme
You are born to know this, your mother whispered the poem through the red curtain of her belly
Our lives are performed in the round to subliminal libretti
When we die our funerals are merely rehearsing
Our pieces remembered resonance resounding

I am the poem
I can feel it like static crackling along my skin
My pen hand twitching
It’s voice in my throat itching
And when I share my woeful hoarse echo of the poem it is a remembering
Like, yes, this is home

Sometimes we forget to listen
Sometimes we lose our place in the chorus
And it takes the kindness of a stranger,
Coffee conversation pauses
Or the knowing curiosity of a child to restore us
Come, let’s rehearse the verse that skips on our tongues
Come, let’s lay down the words that our fingertips know.
Listen. You can hear it.
We are the poem.

1 comment: