Photographs by Claire Burge
What is poetry,
she asked…
fetching it to me…
with full hands.
How could I
answer the woman?
I do not know what
it is any more than
she…
I guess it must
be marks on tender
skin…
bearers of sin…
cool cups of rain
and bottles of tears…
collected on midnight
trains…
from the eyes
of old men, old women
and infants traveling
to God knows where…
it hangs and is lifted
from our hair…
goes onward and
onward speaking
itself…
tripping us
as we debark
chewing-gum-mottled
metal stairs.
Photographer Claire Burge is a photographer, entrepreneur, poet and writer in training who lives in the countryside of Ireland but calls South Africa home. You can find her at www.claireburge.com.
L.L. Barkat is a staff writer for this magazine.
Verse
Reprinted from
, published by International Arts Movement.
By L.L. Barkat
What is poetry,
she asked, fetching
it to me with full
hands. How could I
answer the woman?
I do not know what
it is any more than
she. I guess it must
be marks on tender
skin, bearers of sin,
cool cups of rain
and bottles of tears
collected on midnight
trains from the eyes
of old men, old women
and infants traveling
to God knows where,
it hangs and is lifted
from our hair
goes onward and
onward speaking
itself, tripping us
as we debark
chewing-gum-mottled
metal stairs.
