Monday, 26 April 2010

Poetry Is...

Poetry Is…
Wearing your mother’s clothes because
At that age no one defines beauty more than her.
It’s the first time you realise parents are just humans
And prone to making mistakes.
Poetry is loving just for the sake of it.
Unrequited love. Only confessed to empty rooms at night.
It’s 70’s blaxploitation films. All pomp and swagger.
Poetry is placing your hands in a cold stream of tap water
When the days heat up because the sun is back from hiatus.
It is the string of thoughts in my head
Begging to be immortalised on paper.
It’s all the poems ever written about what poetry is.
What the Oxford English defines it as.
Incessant faith in a higher force is poetry.
It lies in the crevices of excited conversations
Of Black women sharing hair care tips.
It is my memories of back home. Blurred and selective.
It is a hot shower after a 10 hour shift
Spent getting harassed by Essex girls
Who wear orange minstrel faces.
It’s hating someone and not knowing why.
Hip Hop, Jazz and Blues.
Poetry is,
Being hungry and broke at the same time.
Arriving home to find mum has cooked instead of dad.
It is how everything I find endearing reminds me of you.
Sleeping in your bed. Our arguments.
It is kissing someone and enjoying it.
A genuine smile that lingers.
Poetry lies in a well faked smile.
Bingeing on borrowed boxsets of The Wire.
Clocking the tag line at the beginning
And laughing at the joke because you get it.
It is big, warm hugs where you stop smelling
Anything but the other person’s scent.
Knowing someone is truly your friend.
Poetry is crying for hours till you feel happy again.
Funerals. The mystery of death.
It is eating smuggled food. It tastes better
Because it’s seasoned with deceit.
It is how the universe sprang into existence.
Poetry is,
Sleep and the world beyond the conscious mind.
Defined by infinity. It lives longer than time.


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