Inge Haupt
Chewing CudArchive for poem
The Voice
A poet sits quietly on a burnt-out old tyre,
Under a corrugated beam
And waits.
Waits to be heard and paint the world as he sees,
Waits for the screams to roll down the street
On desperate feet.
Red spots flying from blades of glass,
A bright shot, from a barrel dark,
And a huge scythe with an evil gleam
Under which tendrils are teased from an artery.
A symphony of strokes works its way up the body
And rounds punctuate the clouds of smoke.
A burst here,
A scream there,
A shrill, a stutter,
A chorus of clash, crack, thud, thump.
Colours hurled from black to red,
Some fled and others bled.
A poet sits quietly on a burnt-out old tyre
But cannot begin
To describe this hellfire.
The Poet
A poet sits quietly on a hanging tyre swing
Under an old bluegum tree
And waits.
Waits to paint the world as it slowly manifests before the eyes.
A little lavender here,
Fuchsia there,
Green darts bouncing between blades of grass.
A shoot of brown bark
And a huge swathe of brilliant blue
Onto which tendrils of cloud are teased with a tapering stroke.
A symphony of notes is thrown up like confetti
And clings to the clouds.
A little quaver here,
A warble there,
A trill, a chatter,
A chorus of cheeps, chirps, tweets, twitters.
Colours hurled from bush to tree,
Red to green.
A musical of song and sun and dancing grass.
A poet sits quietly on a hanging tyre swing
But cannot begin
To describe this blessing.
