366
366
or
not
going to happen
(indulge this moment's fantasy of
self-reflection)
I
want them to point and say
there
he is!
there's
the
one who wrote a poem a day
for
the whole of the year
and
some of them were alright too
I'd
know him anywhere
just
by style
by
voice –
unmistakable!
and it was better than the news
you'd want to hear from him every day
and he was … reliable!
like a paper thrown at your letterbox
but landed right way up
and didn't need too much unwrapping
and
he wasn't the only one
there
was a whole bunch of them
all at the every day stuff that mattered
what
an effort they made!
and
they did it together
they
were
in conversation
they were a community
hard at it
making the heart-and-head stuff –
poetry!
magic – all out of thin air?
not really
more like
they all just kept each other going
like a conversation
really
it's unprecedented
who's
ever done that before?
were
there poetry holidays in there?
any
poetry-off days?
well
sometimes it
might
have got prosaic
and
much that was meant
just
had to be pictured
but
poetry was the spirit of the thing
and
the spirit was always there
I
want them to say
the
punters I mean
I
want them to say
o
pioneers!
when
the world was turning to shit before
our eyes
they
did this democratic thing
bore
witness to each other's truths
and
made it part of their day
the
work of witness
a
kind of standing up to
say
I'm
in nobody's bottom drawer
I'm
present to this world
and
sing
it
made the day
made
mine, made yours
that's
what I'd like to hear them say
they
were the ones who kept the faith
their
politics was poetry
heroes
of the deep lost verbiage
heroes
picturing
should
be borne shoulder high
among
adulant crowds
to
wear the laurel jubilant
of
getting to this day
lyrics
licked
and
tune enduring
heroes
of poetry's community
anthem,
jig and flag unfurl
?
but
all are victims of a closing cadence
denouement
comes to the best
I
have this sneaking suspicion
recognition
will not
instead
it's
more like
look
at this sorry collection
they
have the poetry disease
him
and his sad friends
they
have to do it every day
it's
like a running nose
this
draft of a poem every day
and
you're out of the allergy medicine
follow
the tissue-strewn path
to
the temple, is it
or
the ward for hopeless cases?
it
was always hard to tell those apart
but
what is
there to worship at last?
I
wonder if there's a way we could help them?
maybe
be the best thing we can do
is to politely turn away?
or even if we read
we can pretend that we ignore them
yes they are beyond our help
pretend it hasn't mattered
pretend no difference was made
comrades
let me just say this
bugger the rest of the world
it's off to buggery all by itself
requires none of our help to get there
but
this year was ours too
I wrote for you
you wrote for me
isn't that what counts?
Shisendo - temple of the poetry immortals
