Clancy O'Connell

Unheard Soliloquies



Show me what poetry means.


I cannot find the method

amongst a writing sea of words

that twist and turn on themselves

until no white spots are left

between scribbled lines of

Crayola creativity.

 

You read your poetry aloud, afraid

the dramatic pauses will be lost

if left alone to another interpretation.

You tell yourself that every line

is worth an hour of scrutiny.

I say

            you have missed the point entirely.

 

A scream is a scream. Heard. Unheard.

It is an emotional epiphany only if

the thing is unplanned. Unchecked.

The grey dots scattered in a grid of

black squares, poetry disappears

under a direct gaze. Skittish.

 

A shy child hiding behind the skirts

of maternal syllables.

Quicksand metaphors.

A ghost that slips in and out

of view. Elusive elixir.

 

Struck with blinding intensity

at the moment of the Ah-ha!

The trembling hips and lips

of a thing loved at just

the right tempo. Temptuous.

The perspiration of passion

beading into pools of

congealing thought.

Lava lamp of ideas

that float and merge

in majestic silence.

            A monolith of muse.