Poetry readings happen here, there, yesterday, to night, tomorrow,
in pubs, at palaces, on street corners, in churches, and in huts… all over the world.
Hundreds of styles and forms… Different in Africa. Different in India
Rhymed then, patterned now, unknown tomorrow, bubbling up in a 100 years.
It’s tight and loose… aggressive and shy... happy and sad…
It flows from people scratching their hearts into concrete time,
and varies from poet to poet and from poem to poem…
Guaranteed! If not, there is no poetry!
Have you ever wanted to read someone’s mind?
You can… that’s the point… it happens all the time,
You don’t have to work at it; these people, the ones we call poets,
they have this secret zipper, a couple of lines open a fly and
there you are looking at blood and guts and hurt and joy…
at laughter and love and pain… and sometimes…
at relief.
The sweet frosting, or sour medicine, or beautiful song, or ugly growth…
of someone’s soul is squeezed out;
It’s echoes sink into your mind and leave ebb ripples in silent sand.
Or weakness, tender flesh and bile drips out
packed and delivered in a poultice of words.
Sometimes old wounds heal by touch.
Sometimes other wounds… some new and some used, …never ever heal.
Some poets are so good at this you want to listen forever,
or run… so far away you’ll never hear truth again.
Some times you twist in your seat and beg for breath,
you think you’ll drown…
but no!,
the poet drops a line or the poem ends,
and you suddenly realize, you’re flying…
with wings you didn’t even know you had.
The miracle is that poetry comes as a gift; but the wings are yours…
they were there, needing to unfold…
needing poetry…
they are always there!