Downstairs in a ill-lit room a tiny man
sits on a wooden chair and rubs his hands
together with a wicked grin then
scribbling in the ship’s manifest
“manifest – to reveal one’s presence”,
like an unwanted guest, not ghost
manifest, oh, manifest
your music with your words be dressed
manifest, oh, manifest
abradabra ullulates, magic
and hey presto,
from this jumble of silly sounds
bring forth your manifesto,
Filed under: pauls
That language contains actual magic, in the roots of words, their sounds and origins, the ability to create change often in inexplicable ways. That language contains the entire history of human thought, both rational and emotional,
That magic creates the illusion of change
and posits the poet as medium.
That magic can make a fresh flower turn left
but language can ask that we take it
…and reason, then, whether we should.
I think he should go upstairs.
Great write.