with a cup of ginger tea
or in the early dawn
with mint leaves and honey
and the birds laughing their way
into the day
when the colours sweep across the pallet
of my typing
and the haze and the sweetness
brings words together
the sweet swallow's song
it is not that the mid day sun
does not bring with it the poems.
Indeed.
They come hurtling at me
assaulting me
with image and verse and rhyme
i become
desparate
to write and even more desparate
that they be read
and you dear reader
occaisionally oblige
but really
even though they
are
beautiful
they are becoming too painful
they become
that which I do
to myself
instead
of that which I do
for myself
you noon-day poems
take me away from
that vital noon day meal -
from
bread butter and self-sufficiency
i
just can not afford
the noon-day poetry
let my muse
turn my head towards
that which generates
income and 'real work' and 'success'
let he
show me what to do next
how to win the proposal
how to secure the outcome
how to re-write that paragraph
that will do the work
that reconnects the
academic and the practitioner the
thinker and the thought the
earth and the value of creation
the work
not only of networking but of building
the community
beloved
i seek poetry
actualised
poetry
manifested in brick and mortar
in reports and published papers
in meetings and invoices and human resources
transformed.
please
mighty poetry,
in all your glory
my dear muse,
in all your strength -
help me
seek thee
not only on this slip of a page
but in the world.
help me
build thee
create thee
form thee -
manifest thee:
beloved in the flesh.
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