This is my little obsession,
my fetish, my fixation.
Writing a poem is an act of
stealth, privacy, translation,
frustration, capturing or missing
a moment, a thought, a perception.
It is unique; a personal
invocation, revelation, discovery,
for me, perhaps even for you.
It’s more than a recollection,
and memory can play tricks.
My poem can expose,
unwind, unfurl, dissect
or wrap, conceal, obfuscate
in a riddle or a rhythm
and an absence of reason.
The relevance and the risk
are mine, the feelings,
when I write them, genuine.
I can’t stop the flow of
words appearing on the page.
I could hide them in a drawer
to gather dust, or dare to
offer them to you.
You are entitled to accept
or reject, enjoy or criticise.
You have your own
particular perspective.
My job is done;
yours just
beginning.