Complicit in the great epodic downfall
of poet writing only for poet? Yet who
else should I write for? If not for me?
I write my way through the confusion
that is the why of my existence,
and I am
the man in the street, the whatever;
the couch potato. The manic and
bedraggled loneliness feeding
stray cats; I am the poet, vicarious
starman climbing my own steep
stairway, mountain of words.
I am the tears that slide unmentioned
through the stubble on your cheek.
I am the mother unmade.
I write for the poet trapped elsewhere
unaware of the proximity of sky;
I am the poet;
the lingering harm.
The mother, the child.
I write from my own dark and growing
ever more uncertain about
the shattering light of day.
Yet do I not owe it to myself, the
enquiry, the possibility,
of change? The price, the privilege of days,
is it not movement? Like the universe,
am I not expanding ever outwards
childlike and yet, pleating in patterns,
folding in long familiar creases
the fabric of me has been pinned and cut
shaped and torn, patched and changed. Temptation
rises to dismiss the offering
of a parachute.
I am the poet, the one I feed,
I could still be, still fly,
do I not owe it to the privilege of days