26 July, 2010


Against all her better judgment,
she has become a poet.
Spinning words with fire and edge,
she looks for that which is paramount.

It came slowly and yet all of a sudden,
one soft afternoon
in the historical lands of her dreams:
the words came and she started to sew.

It, the quality, does not really matter.
She writes poems because they are
fast and severe and open like
surgery, or kite-flying on a beach.

The rhymes do not speak loudly;
she is not talented enough for
iambic pentameter.
But some of the lines are sharp.

Sometimes the sonnets
are about animals and the sea.
Sometimes also, she writes about love,
and heartache, and sadness.

The poems about the sea
and the sun make more sense.
To her, love is silly, unrefined,
and sometimes very dishonest.

The words continue to dance,
sometimes like Gene Kelly
but once in a while, convulse like
the ballet Rite of Spring.

She enjoys writing poems
even though she openly has
scorned poetry before.
Their speed gives her space.

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