I truly began the week with a poem roiling inside of me - heart, head, and gut. It claimed it wanted to be written, but it would not take on any form or direction. I couldn't grab hold of enough of it to begin to see its shape. It kept running around, and around with no resolution or purpose. I fear I am not skilled enough to write wild, free range, circular verse.
When the wanna-be poem came round again - dashing by and blowing raspberries as it passed - I finally grasped just a shred of it. It struggled and jeered against my tentative clinch, and the thought hit me, "Some poems are private."
PING! A poem inspired by not being able to write a poem.
by Judith Cullen
Some poems are public.
Open declamations, innermost
extrapolations, interpreted candidly
for all to experience.
of passionate embraces, or losses.
Over sights bare for scrutiny.
Some poems are private.
Never fashioned for liberty,
wrapped in lavender scented tissue.
Dubious rhymes sliding
securely beneath stacked socks.
Free verse that you rehearse
for an audience of no body.
Look at them, the people on the street.
See them, citizens busily bustling.
Which of them is harboring
covert stanzas, hidden odes?
Look at her, a woman ordering coffee.
See him, picking up his prescription.
Which of them is the subject,
the vital matter, of secret poetry?
If they knew, would it make a difference?