The Magic
Sometimes I ask myself, what is the good of poetry?
I ask why do I need it? What is its comfort?
I open a book, turn to the page that’s just right,
and I see so many stick figure soldiers
who come in and make war on anything
that would sack the city of my mind,
or I pick my pen and create an army of workers
to clean its walls, make repairs, trim the hedges,
and generally tidy up the joint so it’s livable again.
When I’m battered by a raging sea of ideas,
the boat—drunken though it may be—of poetry
comes by and I ride those waves in it,
and come safely to the shore of new understanding,
only slightly damp from the deluge.
When I’m drowning in a sea of events,
when the ocean of news, print on pages
that smudges my fingers, overwhelms me
and I’m so far below the surface
that it seems like a barely recalled memory,
and I can’t breathe for all the attendant words
that flood over me, threatening to end me,
the strong arm of poetry takes my hand
and pulls me to the surface, where it breathes for me,
resuscitates me, and pulls shiny fish
from my pocket for barbecue breakfast on the beach.
When the world exhausts me
I sleep under the doona of poetry,
when my righteousness deserts me
I sit in the straight-backed chair
that is poetry for the would-be profligate.
When I’m in the fight of my life
poetry is my sword and shield,
when my courage fails, poetry is my heart,
and when I’m lonely poetry is my friend.
When I’m ordinary and mundane,
poetry is the magic.
In the end, when I breathe, poetry is the air.
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