Saturday, 13 April 2013

In the eye of the dream





Each time you raise your lids
horizons float fuzzy fluid
and when you close them shut
the trickle of the road dries up
inhale, exhale, hold
dreams get quickly cold.

 

The winds from an exposed place
flay open the planes of a face
a small window in the cheek
shows the movements as each speaks
climb up, climb down, stop
it’s all just idle talk.

 

So a machine emits poetry
as the finger jabs at a key
hardly anything involved
horizons easily dissolved
regroup, recoup, stream
the crusted eyes of dreams.







4 comments:

  1. that last stanza...a machine emits poetry hardly anything involved...i wonder than if it really would be poetry...if there was no heart....

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    1. Thank you! the heart's behind the finger, of course....hardly anything involved in the physical act of writing...the degree of intimacy in pen-to-paper is far higher than pushing buttons..but your point is an interesting leader into the debate whether poetry is written from the heart/head...

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  2. the emotional stream that leads to art is indeed intense at times. And i believe art takes origin from life. Revolving around that concept, your poem is so meaningful and beautifully penned !

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    Replies
    1. Thank you Maliny....art certainly draws its inspiration from life/experience, some intense some low-key, but all from the same source.

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