Monday, 17 February 2014

43. Ready When the Wave Is

Why am I eating a biscuit as I write this?
Is that unpretentious enough for us all?
How far back does the memory of this poem go?
Can there be anything in it that will really heal?

Why do some poets write crisp, neat & decorous?
Is there any truth, then, in that legend?
How can these tangled lines help us to arrive?
Can it be that easy to write down how to cook?

Why are some words familiar and others shaken lines?
Is this forming anything we can call a poem?
How will it all be ready when the wave is?
Can anyone care two figs for all these words?

Why do we link the arrowed lines & the scrawled together?
Is there any escape from this gemination of left & right?
How is any process that is worthwhile helped forward here?
Can one poem be further than any other, or ?

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