That's What Makes it Special

 

'It's just a poem, that's all'

and her words hang in the air

as she turns to me

with a reckless stare

while I order her and her brother

to sit down

and listen to their mother...

(I ignore their frowns:)

Because, I replied,

A poem is never

'just a poem'

It is unlike

any other form

of printed word

placed, interlaced,

broken then shirred

Taking ordinary

bits of sound

Weaving them softly

jagged, profound

into heart-wrenching treasure

or kisses of pleasure

Beauty, mystery

and ecstasy.

That's poetry

...a fire in one's bosom

that refuses to die

until it is set free

 ...like a butterfly

keening the mind

to night's sensuous flow

or running one's thought

where feet cannot go

That's a poem, you know

Waves pressing hard

restless, they rage

held against their will

in an ivory cage

until at last they spill

onto a page

where they will be

forever preserved

in poetry

and that's what makes it special

Janet~

It all began with the mention of someone's name...and suddenly I remembered him reciting a poem at a school Christmas concert so I was going to find it and read it to them. My son asked, as I went to the computer, 'What are you looking for and my teen-age daughter replied...'just a poem':)

Here is the Poem I was Looking for...

One, Two, Three

By Henry Cuyler Bunner


It was and old, old, old, old lady
And a boy that was half-past three,
And the way that they played together
Was beautiful to see.
She couldn't go romping and jumping,
And the boy, no more could he;
For he was a thin little fellow,
With a thin little twisted knee.
They sat in the yellow sunlight,
Out under the maple tree,
And the game that they played I'll tell you,
Just as it was told to me.
It was hide-and-go-seek they were playing,
Though you'd never have known it to be--
With an old, old, old, old lady
And a boy with a twisted knee.
The boy would bend his face down
On his little sound right knee,
And he guessed where she was hiding
In guesses One, Two, Three.
"You are in the china closet!"
He would cry, and laugh with glee--
It wasn't the china closet,
But he still has Two and Three.
"You are up in papa's big bedroom,
In the chest with the queer old key,"
And she said: "You are warm and warmer;
But you are not quite right, "said she.

"It can't be the little cupboard
Where mama's things used to be--
So it must be in the clothes press, Gran'ma,"
And he found her with his Three.
Then she covered her face with her fingers,
That were wrinkled and white and wee,
And she guessed where the boy was hiding,
With a One and a Two and a Three.
And they never had stirred from their places
Right under the maple tree--
This old, old, old, old lady
And the boy with the lame little knee--
This dear, dear, dear old lady
And the boy who was half-past three.