What is poetry but a succinct diary, tapped on a phone, to the rhythm of the mood,
Oft tired, lethargic to move, but restless too under the hood.
It is the mild soothe of an informal dialogue from oneself
to myself.
It is the mirrored retelling of spirited pleasure and the laments of misery.
It is a cheap therapy paid for by the purse of vocabulary.
It writes itself, (in bed with no light,
bound in a hoodie on a 6 am flight.)
with thumbs creeping across the keyboard briskly,
desiring to capture the precise moment-thought-feeling
of that time, that place:
Imbibing the essence of the space,
imparting the spark of the emotion,
imprinting the colour of the scene,
impounding the beat of the heart.
They are feelings that inevitably get clouded by the whats-beens, and so
must in equal part be,
A requiem for the moments gone, a rite for memory’s curse:
For the purest truth of feeling is that its irreplacable,
despite the gift of verse.
My silent companion, my guardian of reminiscence.
Over azure skies, I fly through the dusk into an uncertain dawn. In gentle remembrance of the whispers of the past, forlorn.
Commentary: Written in 2023, during business travel (red eye flight), during a reflection on what Poetry is/could be to me