I have always maintained that the raw material for poetry is all around us but that most of the time we don't realise it. A poet is a person who sees the possibilities and who tries to respond to them. Last Saturday I had the idea that the air is teeming with poems, they circle like airplanes waiting to land. This is what I did with that idea:
Poems Are Everywhere
a complex holding pattern
keeps the free range poems airborne
invisible they circle the world
we are oblivious
every now and then
one of us may catch
a whisper in the ear
a few may write down
the words they hear
and mangle the streamlined form
a fewer still will claim to know
the secret frequency with which
they could guide any poem to the page
but he was sceptical
and simply gave thanks
for every poem that chose him
It's a work in progress. I am unsure if free range adequately describes the natural state of poems in the wild. Also I am not sure if the penultimate stanza works- who are these people, hacks?
I suspect I took the word free range from the news that all free range chickens in the UK have been kept inside so long because of bird flu that they must be reclassified as barn eggs. Things fall apart.
Here is a song by the Mountain Goats that references another bird flu epidemic while lamenting the death of the reggae sing Dennis Brown.And here is the man himself.
Until next time.