“We make our meek adjustments,
    Contented with such random consolations
    As the wind deposits in slithered and too ample pockets.”

               Hart Crane, “Chaplinesque”

A footstool in the desert.
A napkin in the netherworld.
A coffee stain in the margin.
Perfumed remains.
Systematic garnish.
Dorothy Stratten climbing Mt. Suribachi.
My late father’s toenail clippers.
Pale clouds over Slauson Avenue on the day after the L.A. riots.
A rhetoric of purpose.
A philosophy of decay.
A poem written to an audience of one.

©David Adamson 2015

Poetry is subjective

Relief and escape are relative.
My relief is another's hell.
Some pour their soul into words
Like their body was made to write
Some must force themselves
Into the confines of a word,
Their brain oozing out the top.

Beauty is a man-made concept.
The worth of art
is one soul's opinion.
She digests the poem
As if it is hand made pasta
It slips and slides through her
And she appreciates the chef.

In my body,
It is garbage.
The gritty texture triggers
A gag reflex.
I mash the letters with my teeth.
I cannot force them down.

Poetry is personal

These realizations cannot penetrate
A being who has not been pried open
In preparation.
I am not you,
Nor are you me.
My art is not yours.

My poetry lies there forgotten
Amidst the bustling crowd
Piled up books weighing it down
Books about practicality, books about reality

My poetry is still bursting
With possibilities of magic and of love
Ah! But the weight of logic
Weights down upon it

My poetry is all I rely on
Because the real world
Is too much to carry with myself
So I don't let it in

My poetry is my only visitor
On days when all is lost
It comes passionately, doesn't stay for long
And it retires exhausted

My poetry is.
My poetry was.
But, will my poetry be?
Ah! My poetry is 'me'