Hunting for poems|
I'm hunting poems in the jungle.
When I catch one I shall stab it with my pen
and stick it in my book with spit
and glue. I expect that it will wriggle
for a while, and snarl and struggle to be free.
Thatís the sort of nuisance that a slippery poem can be.
Sometimes I see peaceful poems sleeping in the shade
and when I pounce they wake, bemused,
and find themselves stuck firm in place, confused,
and wonder how they got there. But itís too late:
theyíre stuck and find they have no choice
but resignation to their fate.
Iím sad when poems get away:
they let me catch a rippling glimpse,
a tantalising sense of shape and then
dissolve themselves in undergrowth.
Iím dazzled by a gleaming eye,
a graceful swerve, a rhythmic gait.
My fingers clutch the empty air
my pen stabs sharp Ė thereís nothing there Ė
the poemís gone and itís too late.
But the ones that I like best of all
are those that seem compliant:
they let me toy with them like mice
then eat me like a giant.
All materials © 2004 Martin Alexander. All rights reserved.