Most people think of poety as a delicate thing. .
Like sugar finely spun into a gossamer silk adorning an ornate wedding cake.
Its splendour to be found both in its intricacy and its fragility.
Even the word poetic, dances upon the tongue elegantly
So I receive gifts of watercolour paper, inks, sealing wax, calligraphy sets, leather bound notebooks, all of the finest instruments – as those who hear my words believe must be necessary to create beauty, but this is not the reality, my words are not spun like gossamer silk.
They do not arrive softly, tenderly, sweetly, politely.
They don’t beckon gently, make me a cup of tea, and invite me to consider them.
The Words arrive without notice, in the middle of the night, chaotically, loudly.
They jostle me out of bed.
Like a calamity or a boisterous and unpleasant houseguest, who is a loud talker with no filter, whose prattle echoes through a tiny cottage, when you have a migraine.
They words arrive like a circus train through a sleepy town in the wee hours.
Girrafes, elephants, tigers, monkeys, birds. All with their own call and screech and noise. All with their own smell and movement. All with their own desires and needs aching to be met. All trumpeting above one another to have their voice heard.
They are restless, they want to be let out. They have arrived and they want to breathe free air, and stretch their toes on the soft grass. They want to roll in it. They want to bathe in fresh water and Not pace and pace in their 4×4 cells that stink of piss and sweat and despair.
The words eviscerate me with their brutality and resurrect me with their exquisite beauty.
Their arrival is nothing less than sacred chaos.