Day 18: Becoming Poetry

“…hand who’s muscles have forgotten
hieroglyphics but who find the words
just a few, for the one thing
everyone is thinking but
won’t say.”

Someone said to me yesterday “poetry becomes you.”  I wondered what that meant as he walked away.  If I were to think that about another poet, here is what it might mean.

Poetry becomes you
when spaces inside find daylight
mixed with motion, a faint swirl
like when dressing, how your shirt
falls in a slow ripple cascade
as if a window just opened, moves
grace in folds, sheer and delicate
down your back.

Poetry becomes you
when nuance wells up between
thoughts, like leaves in wind most
won’t see, but one catches your eye
as it twirls over and over to the earth,
cat calling and whistling at you
all the way to your feet.

Poetry becomes you
when words hidden from air
in books, lost in time archaic
float back languid past pen over paper
liquid in language from a dream
triggered by a lyric, how she signed her name
swirls of L and J- all captured in your net
for later, held close behind your back
as he walks toward you, smiling.

Poetry becomes you
when the hairy ogre in the pink hat
red shoes too small for his feet, the one
no one will admit, but is sitting right there
confessing, or lying and smelly, says
something about his pain, starts to scream
or is that you actually screaming
mute button on, pen dipping the well
hand who’s muscles have forgotten
hieroglyphics but who find the words
just a few, for the one thing
everyone is thinking but
won’t say.

© 2012 Tara Linda  V.3

Author: tara linda

musician, poet, jewelry maker

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