A handful of verse is all
It takes, listened to
Leisurely rather than read
With silence or embarrassed
Mumbles—The house is
Loud and I hate the sound
Of my own voice;
My accent clogging due
To lack of use.
In my head I monologue
With fluency and grace,
No strain, just the occasional
Dutchism, here and there—
A handful of verse heard
In between flows of music
Without words is all
It takes to get the rhythm
Rolling, the scribbling,
The meaning and form
Fall upon the flow like
Levees and dams, there
To tame the current
And direct. Sometimes
The visions and the tale
Are with me from the start,
Sometimes they catch up
On the way while I saunter
Slavishly behind the sound
As it seeps of its own
Accord. The edit comes
Along too sometimes, snipping
And shaving on the move,
That or it waits for me
At the final stretch
Where the scribbling scuttles
Towards its uncertain
End.
Tuur Verheyde is a twenty-three year old Belgian poet. His work often discusses current events, progressive politics, spirituality and highbrow and popular culture as well as personal experiences and stories. Follow him on Twitter at @TuurVerheyde.
unpublishable 