Friday, January 9, 2015

The Oral Poem

Poetry's natural home is not in the book..
                                       Mike Chasar                                 
Putting you in a book
would be slipping shoes
on the gypsy girl  who danced
with a goat and tambourine
before crowds. Her steps then
hindered, her feet harnessed  tight
in leather and cord.
You are the lean song
who lives on the road
moving through village green
or market square
catching on the tongue
of those who will listen,
remember. And for the record
I might put you in print,
a single sheet or card
where  you (alone)  cast your shadow
on the reader, on the lancet window
of his ribs or hers -- where the lung's cathedral
lights its votive flame
and hails you -- generational.
One voice to the next.


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