The Pool

my heart is slow and private,

it does not gush sonnets and poems to the passing wind.

but rathers solitude in the still dark pools of itself,

it allows time to cosy in with the moss and bracken,

finding intimate knowing that quietly nods in recognition,

carry on, keep moving – nothing can be said of this right now.

*

words wear cheap make up,

like busy chatty insects – nip, nip and pester,

drunk in the giddy indulgence of wordsmith prose,

no-one notices when the nectar’s spilt,

and the soul fished cruelly out of water,

lies rotting on the rocks.

*

my poetry lives inside of me,

hugged close into my heart,

here it cares and listens,

for it cannot know when, but sometimes it happens,

I feel to take the air in deep,

and God comes in, breathes me instead.

*

music stirrs my soul from rest,

expectant delight – my body shudders,

languid, gentle to determined and strong,

life dances itself through me into being,

fool crazy laughing, liberation and leaping,

wild whipped horses freinze through existence,

then stop, pull in, come back and remember…

*

…mainly my heart is slow and private.

Poem by Jivan Kavyo
Read his profile: Jivan Kavyo: The Next Generation