Ian Trousdell (1951 / England - grew up in NZ)

Poetry is not about words.
Poetry flows
from experiences that hover beyond words,
a shining memory sounding muffled
hidden behind a familiar door.

The words of a poem
are the funeral of my old father,
magnificent, feisty and watchful,
available to the last
through indefinable gestures
and a shining silence
existent somewhere else now
as poetry is, the real poem,
not the heavy coffin of the print.

Poetry pines for it’s lost world,
its hidden home,
like a swan still singing on a plate.

It is homesick, alone, away
from its chosen canyons and
mountain trees around the lake,
vibrant with colour
in memories that glow
for a lifetime.

You know, as I do, poetry is not words,
but is a royal personage,
my father on his deathbed.