Poetry can be
as cold as Scott’s last breath,
as definite as the first earthy clod
flung down on a coffin,
as grief-bound as the man you love
in his black suit and tie,
as vague as whiteout in Antarctica.

Poetry is
warm – like bedouin fire in a Jordanian night,
remote – like a neighbour in the suburbs,
intimate – like air on an eyelash,
flash-hot desire in your lover’s eyes.

Cracks your heart sharper than an egg
against the side of a bowl.
Makes you speed-weep
faster than an onion’s thought.
Helter-skelters you
to the other side of the roundabout
without looking for traffic from the right.

is music in silence.
It writhes without movement.
It intrudes without permission.
It refuses to compromise.

Wraps you up in black and white
cotton wool,
before sending you out
to other worlds.

© Karen J. McDonnell.

Can Do Poetry” appeared in the 25 November 2011 edition of the Clare Champion.

No photograph of Karen J. McDonnell available