Brightlingsea

I took a storyHacked off the wasteLopped of the unnecessaryPared down the descriptionHoned the verbsSanded away the punctuationI polished until I reached the essenceAnd found I had a poem

You talk poems, they saidI know, I saidI live them, I am a poemI am my imagesNow a crumpled can of cokeNow a wisp of smokeNow an oarless boatWallowing on slick seaIn some dense mist And more images waitIn the wingsTo become enactedThrough my words.

It was darkThe middle of the nightIt was darkAfter midnightI was in the middle of the road Ultimately in the glare the brittle stare of a headlight. Mindless in my griefI would rise In the darkIn the middle of the nightI would dressWhile she sleptSlip from that home And walk the lanesMindlesslyUntil, Like a rabbitI was caught in the glare Of

I’ve never done it before,I confessed to herI don’t really know the …protocols,the routine, the form. OK, so I know that soundsprescriptive and functionalbut, help me out,Come on, just the basics. NoNo I didn’t quite mean it like that.I meanI have got an imaginationI can visualise it, sort ofAnd I quite like the idea. ButWhat

What is thisbut a tussle ofjumbled wordsconfined in a bag,strung at the neck tocontain, control,constrict…….? Into this sack I plunge my naked arm,shirt rolled businesslikehigh above the elbow,my body covering, my material worldheld clear of these raw brutes Where words are memoriesand I contrive sweet tunes to charmtheir venom.Dance for me, I bait,never sure if myprompting will arousewarm

I cobble words.I take them raw,Cut, stitch, hammerand shape themto some new form. I give them style,a new beauty maybe.I give them loveand emotion, the expertise of my past. Some will be graceful and welcome, classicin their looks, aperfect fit for everyonewho laughs and dances. Some will be heavyand functional, wordsyou work in, that do sensible things onnon-dancing