a traveller’s encyclopaedia(or winter song)
long have i wondered who(out
of winter nights, chilly breezes)has
seen all that’s to be seen in my tentative,
tense words — nodded along&hummed&sighed;
touched the edge of the paper,as i do,softly.
unfurling slowly my words,i’ve asked
&then regretted it,because it feels(i might
not need answers)incredibly intimate.
long have i dropped my own name,my voice —
all these things,yes, &myself, slowly.
there are unknowns my language doesn’t touch
(&in truth, my verse has long become someone else’s),
oneday i was saying”i’ve found me” then the next
…the next saw me bewildered.all my words amiss
as i picked up this new pen&paper(blue ink,never liked it.)
long have i wondered if now,with phrases i’ve
all but plucked from the ground,my verses are growing;
i’d like them to be very old trees(i know it wouldn’t do ,for
this rebirth is for tiny bushes.)but i am stubborn.
and that i’ve never been,because the word never fit.
out of winter nights,chilly breezes(&now i know
what a chill is,this is new),words hit windows as leaves —
and i hope my voice is my own.a beat &another,
i, i with someone else inside, an i that greets me from afar
,i hope my tentative words have become more solid.
long have i wondered whether i’ve known them or their meaning.