Canto XLV

I’m back to telling strangers I’m a “writer”
whenever they ask after my career—
The P word seems to make my jaw grow tighter,

I’m not ashamed, its more for the veneer
of Jack the Laddish, man about town charm,
that keeps things chipper, there’s no need to share

the shifting strata in the mind that turn
the smouldering compost of slow burning thoughts—
a seething mass of knotted roots and worms

from which the greens of wit and and bluster sprout.
To speak of poetry is to slow down
the language til it complements the beats

of that which endures, germinates, sustains
beyond the case of what is being said.
Behind the words, the movements are not seen,

the inner life of speech is never heard.
The poem’s truth may come at the expense
of explanation, but can be inferred

beyond the dull injunction to make sense.


1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. peter litton
    Aug 22, 2012 @ 23:14:38

    I like this…there is a wonderful flow and rhythm to this poem.
    I also like the idea that a poem germinates, like a plant, growing in the smouldering compost of slow burning thoughts.


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