Sunday, April 8, 2012

The Game

Your cracked hands catch
What the poet throws you:
A matter-of-fact measured line,

A primitive impulse,
A sound loosed
From a sense
Of structures

And marks the end of margins
That evoke
Each encounter.
Some tender oh.

You may miss more than once
But come to it
By different trains at night,
At the poet's arrangement.

Get entangled in the tossing waves,
Underlining the slight pauses
Of a damaged text
With details that support
Rather than define.

Does subsequent readings reveal
Our own rhythmic screams?
This is a poetry splintering spread.

Listen for the words
That hang from my head
In badly organized chains.

You can fill in the missing faces.

But poems are not to be mounted.
They come alive
In the cadence of pleasure.

Allow yourself this vividness.
Now this particular phrase.
And whatever makes itself apparent
In sweet revelation
And bursts from my navel.
The game is clear enough. 

And we'll inhabit
A mythical world of Tuesdays
That the poet creates for the fool
And that the fool performs
For the poet.

This is an unfamiliar circle.
The center in mind
Is you.

Christine Fojas
Another found poem, based on materials in a found poetry kit, from Found Poetry Project.

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