Language Refuses Permission
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| Klara Kulikova for Unsplash |
LANGUAGE REFUSES PERMISSION
The poem enters the room without credentials,ink on its hands, breath smelling of smoke and bread.
Politics is already there—
all elbows and podiums, a mouth full of promises,
papers shuffling like nervous birds.
They recognize each other immediately–
ancient enemies who share a bloodline.
Poetry speaks in wounds and weather.
Politics answers in numbers, borders, terms of service.
Between them, the air thickens.
A metaphor is mistaken for a threat.
A statistic begins to cry.
Someone bangs a gavel and calls it order,
as if order has ever survived a true sentence.
The poem insists on the body—
the mouth without food, the back bent at work,
the child learning the sound of fear.
Politics tries to stand between the poem and the crowd,
but the crowd has already memorized the line.
When they collide, sparks fly off language itself.
Words fracture: freedom bleeds, people multiply,
justice refuses to sit still.
By nightfall, the poem is bruised but breathing,
passed hand to hand like contraband fire.
Politics wipes its brow, changed despite itself,
haunted by an image it cannot legislate away.
Somewhere, a reader feels a sentence land
like a fist, like a kiss, like a door kicked open—
and the collision continues,
not finished, not resolved,
but alive, speaking
and dangerous.
all elbows and podiums, a mouth full of promises,
papers shuffling like nervous birds.
They recognize each other immediately–
ancient enemies who share a bloodline.
Poetry speaks in wounds and weather.
Politics answers in numbers, borders, terms of service.
Between them, the air thickens.
A metaphor is mistaken for a threat.
A statistic begins to cry.
Someone bangs a gavel and calls it order,
as if order has ever survived a true sentence.
The poem insists on the body—
the mouth without food, the back bent at work,
the child learning the sound of fear.
Politics tries to stand between the poem and the crowd,
but the crowd has already memorized the line.
When they collide, sparks fly off language itself.
Words fracture: freedom bleeds, people multiply,
justice refuses to sit still.
By nightfall, the poem is bruised but breathing,
passed hand to hand like contraband fire.
Politics wipes its brow, changed despite itself,
haunted by an image it cannot legislate away.
Somewhere, a reader feels a sentence land
like a fist, like a kiss, like a door kicked open—
and the collision continues,
not finished, not resolved,
but alive, speaking
and dangerous.
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This ars poetica (the art of poetry, or poems about poetry) shared with those vacationing bartenders over at DVerse Poets Pub. Drinks with umbrellas for everyone!
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Fantastic, all of this is the poem
ReplyDeleteMy fav
"as if order has ever survived a true sentence."
Much love
Amazing character sketch of the Poem and Politics. And I admire the consequences of their actions to the reader, being affected by the collision but alive speaking and dangerous. Love your work Chris and wishing you a good summer!
ReplyDeleteA powerful piece of poetry. The use of the word sentence hits the reader immediately.
ReplyDeletePoetry without involving the reader is something different I think... reading makes it complete, and we were very much on the same thought there.
ReplyDeleteI love the characterisation and the extended metaphor here!
ReplyDeleteThe opening lines hooked me immediately, Chris, stunning personification. Indeed, the whole poem is a fantastic extended metaphor. I especially love these lines:
ReplyDelete‘Poetry speaks in wounds and weather.
Politics answers in numbers, borders, terms of service.
Between them, the air thickens’
and
‘By nightfall, the poem is bruised but breathing,
passed hand to hand like contraband fire.’
Your opening line is the perfect hook.
ReplyDelete"Poetry speaks in wounds and weather." and "a reader feels a sentence land
like a fist, like a kiss, like a door kicked open—"--lines like kilanovas in this poem I wish I'd written.
Great first line Chris! Love it 👏
ReplyDeleteA manifesto for why the truth of emotion expressed through Poetry needs to be written to combat the falsity of emotions as exploited by Politics, Bravo, Chris!
ReplyDelete