the birth of a poem

[Doreen Peri]

I read this last night at the Poetry in Baltimore Anniversary Party


the birth of a poem

you know when a poem is overdue
when the concepts slip through
shaded revenues during the moments
snared in blue nights, during the very few
minutes before light makes morning break
as dreams undo perfumed pillowcases
and shadows drift away
when you awaken.

it is then when the poem comes -
it is then when a stanza breaks
and heartbeat drums take over -
it is then when your lover becomes words,

when absurdities clear, when all held dear
erupts from the fragments, when
your verse is steered closer to now,
nearer to a vow spoken to honor earth,
nearer to the birthright of a soul immersed
in time nursed by yet unspoken dangled vagaries
which plague the very nature of the rental space
we all take up.

you know when a poem is long overdue
when the stuff, the residue, the ash,
the cashed-in vastness you so very much want to state
is served up on a plate you can't quite hold,
when the vision of a stolen mission is blasted
from a stun gun into new space,
when you cannot help but trace your fingertips along
the inside out song you only imagined being written –

when the lyric is projected as syllable inflections
and without intention, without plan, without being able
to stabilize colors or spans of time, or cries or wishes
or vistas or mists which frequent dreams,
(since none of it is what it ever seems) –
it is then when the poem comes.

And so you capture it, you trap it,
you tap it out to grab the vagrancy of truth
and make it known that it is caught now
in a stanza or an image permenantly recorded,
stored on particle linen with the nub of a pen
or in an electronic file to prove you soothed
the ruse by witness.

a poem is born when morning grievances
cease to mourn, when spirit leaves turn up
to catch the vast reign of plain thought —

when you've fought and won the light,
caught a rainbow phrase
and the reader hears through your sight,
feels your breath upon their ears,
and the touch of lines becomes
a dear treasure, the measure measured
by the presence the word implies.

the birth of a poem is a morning glory
opened to a hummingbird story sucking life from
the stamen, no matter how vile the pistol, no matter
how difficult to retrieve the memory of fertilization.

the birth of a poem
needs no excuse or explanation.
it is the celebration of the
opening of the legs of the universe –
letting out life.

[judih]

hey, i want one of those
a birth to be proud of

[simon]

kudos to the chef
tasty

[Arcadia]

beautiful poem, doreen!!!!!!!!!!

great that you had a good time there!!!!!!!!!!!!

[mtmynd]

the birth of a poem
the misunderstood
bastard child
of what...
is it literature gone awry?
a restless song without music?

ahh... but there it is
doing its own thing
against the tide of
current thought
the rebel with cause

this little bastard
playing joyfully in
a field of words
innocent to all who try
to figure poem out

it is those that miss the point
and pretend poem is not there
but it will always be there
in some form or another
entertaining minds with
words built by imagination
one sound at a time

[WIREMAN]

it's in you &
it's gotta come out
the undefinable
ungraspable
everlasting
full of different
meanderings
understand?
not everyone will
that's as it should be
unclaspable
flowing free
it's own thang
never for mass consumption
playing to a small quality
audience is where it's at
the world is still waiting
for the sun ra

[mnaz]

This rocks.

"vagrancy of truth"

I just love that. Dam-burst inspiration throughout!

[Doreen Peri]

judih - you give birth to a poem every time you speak.

simon - welcome to the Studio! Nice to meet you! thanks for the kind words.

arcadia - I love it when you reply like that !!!!!!!!!!

cecil - what a great poetic response! a poem was born in reply to me! honored, I am!

wired - you are a dear.... and another poem born for me! thank you, my friend.

mnaz - glad to rock ya! and that's the truth! thanks

[jweeble]

Buried deeply within
Words writhe and wriggle
Trapped eternally internal
Burgeoning,
As the poet desperately
Counts heartbeats
As the phrases formulate,
Gestate
Tarrying woefully
As a woman overdue
Finally stretching inwardly
A letter too much -
And the words spew forth
Gushing and splattering
Onto all around
Drenching with scent
And sight and sound
All within reach.
Beautiful, dutiful
Essence of thoughts
Distilled, determined
To be expressed, expelled
Each one unique:
Some
Born with pain,
Born with grace,
All
Born of necessity.
This wonderment –
A poem.

[Lightning Rod]

as I have said elsewhere
this is a marvelous poem
I read it aloud to my friend
I can't wait to hear your voice doing it

expecting MP3 soon

[WIREMAN]

you should have heard her read it the other night in charm city lrod, you'd a loved it........