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.