CALLING #2
You think you're going to say
this and that plops out,
wetly, lame, a foal of a
thought still slick with
the iron-rich coating of
amniotic juices slathering
its skin; it tries to stand
and falls, stands and falls,
looking to you - its
mother/creator - for help,
but the best you can do
for this alien idea, this
bastard, this cuckoo's egg,
is to give it a lick and a
nudge and edge it to its
feet again, again, not quite
encouragingly, nor appealing
but, like a teacher goading it
to stand up for itself, and
reveal its inner strength,
its purpose, its meaning,
not just to the world but
to you too, because after all
it's yours, surely: it came
from you, yet for the life
of you you can't quite
figure out what fathered it.
MP 226/6724
Martin Peacock
Sat 27th Jul 2024 22:37
Thanks very much Ray. I struggle with my identity as a poet, and often find it difficult to take credit for poems, moreso when they're products of that 'flow state' we enter into when we touch the divine. I'm a fully paid-up member of the Imposter Syndrome gang and this was my way of acknowledging that.