Wednesday, 14 April 2010
it's a poetry thing
I don't think I can manage a poem today. There was a poetry reading on tonight, and after a full day at work, no window available - oh, apart from the 11.00 p.m. - 1.00 a.m. window; but I have used that one a little too much this week, and my body is paying me back, aching for reasonable sleeps.
Well ... maybe I can give one a go. It will have to be about the poetry reading I guess ...
Our heads cloudy with words.
According to my friend Joyce*,
there are about as many poets in the world
as wearers of Davy Crockett hats,
so not a lot.
D.T. is here for the first time
- says he's a closet poet.
C's real, off-line outline
into herself, warm and dear.
A and M and L and C,
and S and J. sit, quietly
dancing on the inside.
L has his ukelele.
C M looks taller than I remember.
The coffee machine goes quiet.
The poets stand up, recite;
beautiful , perplexing
lovely, lovely ...
water and fish and rainbows and rooms and birds and parents and eyes and colours ...
We file out, farewells clinking
on a St. Andrew Street
chilling up its autumn night.
As we drive home
we remember other poetry nights.
All different. It's an organic thing.
As I write this, outside
a possum hisses and wheezes
in the pittosporum.
Kay McKenzie Cooke
* Even though I haven't asked Joyce's permission to use the line about Davy Crockett, I certainly want to acknowledge it as her's.
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