Apparently 21st of March was World Poetry Day. Yes… Well… So in honour of the occasion.
Whirled Poetry Day is a strange event,
a day to collect all your verses,
good and bad alike,
and do something with them.
Tie them up into sheet of fabric,
like preparing a steamed pudding,
if you remember such things.
Tie it to a long string, tightly mind,
and whirl it around like a bull-roarer.
Remember them, from real festivals.
If you can’t remember either return to sleep.
In the morning this will mean nothing,
which may be all for the best.
At maximum velocity smash it, hard,
against a freshly white-washed wall.
Remember when white-wash meant something?
Drop the battered cloth, look at the marks,
the dots, the splatters, the lines.
If it looks like a painting you’re an artist.
But if those strange sigils, those random runes,
look even remotely like letters,
then, like it or not, you’re a poet.
Gyppo