By MJ. Dally
Some poems are better not written;
language could fail them miserably,
their pain and meaning
diminished by the words
we speak or people hear
as they bubble trying to exist;
They may roam around sadly
in the universe like frightened little
orphans, hurt right at birth
and disowned soon after.
Maybe the right thing to do
is catch the poem from the
night inside us, fresh and beating,
a butterfly of fire,
dull it’s pain pushing through our flesh
and let it float into the night outside
changed into songs of silence
or feathers of nothing
or a whisper under the breath
to an all knowing moon,
who is perhaps the sole reader
of the greatest of such poems.
The moon is also a speaker
if we listen across the blue space
between our famished ears and her place
in the cosmos; proud and reserved.
She hums like a whale
of her love with the sea,
and her wish to plunge into him;
and end there like a sad lover
would into a well;
she is patient, her poem
too is unwritten, she says.
She offers to be an orphanage
for our silent poems,
that escape our bodies and homes
into her lair, carried by
urgent winds moving
between sleeping people
like frenzied midwives.
Once they reach the moon,
they shall first be suckled like little mice
and raised into something part thought,
part flesh, part words
and part moonstone,
and they turn into happy big boulders
in the barren heaven of the moon’s skin,
our unwritten poems,
till they blend into the grey roughness
of a million bygone years.
By MJ. Dally
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