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My poem: favourite things: gen
Apr. 30th, 2023 11:06 pmLast day of poetry month!
I wrote a sestina about some of my favourite themes.
favourite things by okapi
mad rubbing, scratching halts at paper’s yip. poetry
best said and best unsaid. erasing sound,
erasing script, display of force, sharp scent
of swift regret at paper’s rip. what’s meant
cannot be unmeant. brushed away. the ground
receives filaments of once-pink rubber mystery
the word embodies itself. mystery.
a duet of trailing vines, y’s. poetry.
whys lie, unseen, between corpse on hard ground
and soft puffs of breath above, not a sound,
no tin-roof patter of rain, no scream meant
to beckon slobbering hounds to raw scent
no copper perfume tainting with foul scent
of breaking skin and violation. mystery
smells clean. like freshly starched collars, ones meant
for under red herringbone tweed. clean like poetry.
like eucalyptus, aromatic sound
a petrichor falling to earth, to ground
and then there’s coffee, cultivated ground
too-clever pause wearing signature scent,
ceramic warmth, wooly mug, stirring sound,
its properties a well-thumbed mystery
from bean to brew, translated poetry
in shades of muddy ground and cloud well-meant
monastic chime, singing bowl, music meant
to elevate listening ear from its ground,
a forest hung with flutes, acoustic poetry
like mint, like pine, a green enlightened scent
a transposed composition held in mystery,
like twisting key in rusty lock, the sound
abandon cup’s comfort as the dogs sound
they bray to drag the poet from what’s meant,
from rubbing and scratching, erasing mystery,
to hunt for what must be found, sacred ground,
to corner, capture every putrid scent
and arrange them all in something like poetry
collecting every sound, the seeds of well-turned ground
no matter what is meant by taste and touch and scent
the poet’s poetry, the soul’s own mystery
I wrote a sestina about some of my favourite themes.
favourite things by okapi
mad rubbing, scratching halts at paper’s yip. poetry
best said and best unsaid. erasing sound,
erasing script, display of force, sharp scent
of swift regret at paper’s rip. what’s meant
cannot be unmeant. brushed away. the ground
receives filaments of once-pink rubber mystery
the word embodies itself. mystery.
a duet of trailing vines, y’s. poetry.
whys lie, unseen, between corpse on hard ground
and soft puffs of breath above, not a sound,
no tin-roof patter of rain, no scream meant
to beckon slobbering hounds to raw scent
no copper perfume tainting with foul scent
of breaking skin and violation. mystery
smells clean. like freshly starched collars, ones meant
for under red herringbone tweed. clean like poetry.
like eucalyptus, aromatic sound
a petrichor falling to earth, to ground
and then there’s coffee, cultivated ground
too-clever pause wearing signature scent,
ceramic warmth, wooly mug, stirring sound,
its properties a well-thumbed mystery
from bean to brew, translated poetry
in shades of muddy ground and cloud well-meant
monastic chime, singing bowl, music meant
to elevate listening ear from its ground,
a forest hung with flutes, acoustic poetry
like mint, like pine, a green enlightened scent
a transposed composition held in mystery,
like twisting key in rusty lock, the sound
abandon cup’s comfort as the dogs sound
they bray to drag the poet from what’s meant,
from rubbing and scratching, erasing mystery,
to hunt for what must be found, sacred ground,
to corner, capture every putrid scent
and arrange them all in something like poetry
collecting every sound, the seeds of well-turned ground
no matter what is meant by taste and touch and scent
the poet’s poetry, the soul’s own mystery