At The Corner Of My Eye

I Never Got the Hang of Poetry

There's poetry is motion, in the grimiest of scenes.
There's poetry in the dirty mail carts pushed and posted by travesties.
There is poetry in the great arching roofs
Of the railway station crammed full of things and people, all aloof.
The regal clock face in white, set into the red sandstone,
Marks the hours for separations and reunions.

There is poetry in the stained train benches,
Protection for the weariness the traveller entrenches.
It's in the whistling wind outside, broken shutters,
Fluttering in appreciation, or perhaps protesting the clutter.
And as the rolling stops the final shriek of the horn,
Announces the journey has ended, and the adventure begun.

Then it's there, thrumming like an invisible beat.
Between the pounding feet and dancing in the streets,
It's stops for moments as if on the edge of a cliff
Then rushes forward in a torrent of victorious shrieks.
Clambering, stumbling, rushing and leaping,
Falling and tumbling but livid and roaring.

I felt it move me, when I moved to the unseen pulse
My hands and feet moved perfectly, no time to rehearse.
It hung in anticipation when I leap't,
It roared with a thrill when I came to the ground,
It swept me off my feet, yet had no heft
It swept my lips up into a smile, though I'd try to frown.

I saw it fly with others too, whether, 
With a bike, a bicycle, or even a fist
Or a piece of tire stuck with a feather.
They all heard it, though not as one,
The pulse of poetry is slave to none.
It beat within them wherever they go,
Breathing and heartbeat, fast and slow.

There it was, what I tried to see, tried to be.
Though its touch was fleeting upon us,
And as we slowed our thrilling dance,
It froze, and left as imperceptibly as it comes.
But when I hum to the beat under my breath, 
I can feel it at the edges of my head, waiting
To fill me up and soar with me again. 

Because behind the silly things we call reality,
Behind the stiffness of the ground,
And a boredom, what we call propriety
Behind the purpose ascribed to serenity. 
Behind the clawing grasp of gravity, 
Is the pulse of Poetry, 
And maybe within it, 
is Me.