A new old friend.
Walks in. Sits straight.
A brown bald head sits in front. Proud dome pulsing next to a lady with a lazy eye.
Weekend wastrels milling in a windowless, wordfull hall.
Eminent wordsmiths; two awardwinning women and two noteworthy men.
A perspex podium tightly lit on a dark stage. Microphones on an electric coil.
Words wander through quietening minds.
Minds welling with lyrical wishes; wrought with words written by a poet's pen.
Worlds loosened and drawn. Images impressed and punchy. Rhythms riotous and smooth. Tease out the tension replacing it with bigger things, like war and peace.
Words that want to change the world only dent the page with the inks they're written in.
Flung together by chance and poetry.
New worlds where Japanese girls die in car crashes and alzeihmer patients plummet from bridges, human stones clothed in gold.
Where people believe poetry can bring peace.
And that peace is possible.
Dark auditoriums full of people smelling of Sunday lunches, sniffling with the winter cold.
Where the jaws of pessimism are circumnavigated by lungs full of hope.
Where the horizon is sun stung and clouds are red ribbons of gold. Where war is real and not some far off thing fought by men in combat but by all the citizens of all the countries that sign a declaration. Where the man at the check out is as complicit as the man manning the check point.
In all of this there's a person who hears all of this and wants to talk.
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