Parlington Street
Poetry, words, what are these things?
an expression of self?
a dirge of internal moments?
and, like the endless words of emails
is it a dreadful and meaningless leakage of self?1
a haemorrhage
slow, fast, mediocre?
doesn’t really matter what speed it is
it just leaks out.
is it better not to let it leak?
is it better to keep it tucked away?
recessed?
why the constant telling?
showing
explaining
thrown towards you
spread out at your feet
like soft petals falling off the blossom trees
by confused winds.
why the desperate need to speak
and speak again
infinite rivers of words
that silently fall into the ocean
become opaque,
lost in their watery transition
merge with all the others
sink
float
stare right into your face
do you see
do you see the staring
as you stand there?
are you overwhelmed,
as I am,
by the suffocating words
that burst out
and begin the cycle all over again?
—Helen Boettcher
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1 From the feel of steel by Helen Garner p94