I find a word
on a galloping journey
and wonder, wonder
what to do with my new found word?
I could breathe it out and cut You.
I could use it to cut into Me.
I could throw it – plop – into an ocean.
I could bury it deeply – dug with a weapon
or I could hold it gently;
notice a shape, a tingle, a texture;
a thumping background rhythm
and I could make an offering.
Extraordinarily,
I could let it be.
Time to speak. We’re sitting in a circle
uttering poems in a very British
order. A lady
reads the Lord’s Prayer – a new translation
from Aramaic - and – it’s not even a poem!
Rhymes and meter missing,
as far as I can hear.
Upsetting. Right -
but the room seems to quieten -
listen - and vision
softens, blurs - as if -
kind of – hard edges turn gorgeous, creamy
and a rosy heart settles,
well, into silence.
‘10 minutes in front of us
we got a problem there;
I’m not aware of it all,
we’ll have to sort it out’
‘Ladies and Gentlemen,
train guard speaking!
East Coast apologises for the delay
- we have a technical fault’
and - testing, testing - over the tannoy
Milton, blind as a mole, squeaks
‘They also serve who only stand and wait’
and Davies, hobbling on one leg, barks
‘A poor life this if, full of care,
we have no time to stand and stare’
He sits at a table opposing her,
angled, on a late night train;
chatting about his music scene
and a dream of becoming a star.
She sits opposing, strokes her hair,
leaning, on the long diagonal,
for a new tune on his headphones
and a dream of becoming a star.
Higher, higher stars alight,
spun and pulled by unseen force;
circling nodes,
flinging their mass,
radiating heat,
fusing; before they explode.
