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Now I have powers of a poet's body. I walk my talk. I march free speech and peace on streets of blind traffic and road rage and cellphones and bad fuel economy. Where I go many go, though all seem to go in silence and alone. Sometimes I go unheard for weeks, months, years on end. My feet fall silent as trees falling in the forest. My feet fall silent as nurses' shoes in hospitals where freedom lies in its bodycast. The corridors of power ring more like echo chambers. The feet of the quiet have no purchase there. Occasionally there is a ping in the void like a submarine's sonar. But it's only one ping and the void is large as the night. Nevertheless there are poets walking, and each one walks her power, walks it against the stream of endless traffic, walks it past the pain of freedom in its bodycast, walks it toward that ping in the void, where trees fall and other trees can hear. · · · · · ·
Poetry on Swans Sabina Becker is a poet and a writer who lives in Cobourg, Ontario with her computer, her books and her cats. In addition to her regular contributions to Swans, you can see more of her work at http://www.sabinabecker.com. Do you wish to share your opinion? We invite your comments. E-mail the Editor. Please include your full name, address and phone number. If we publish your opinion we will only include your name, city, state, and country. Please, feel free to insert a link to this poem on your Web site or to disseminate its URL on your favorite lists, quoting the first paragraph or providing a summary. However, please DO NOT steal, scavenge or repost this work without the expressed written authorization of Swans. This material is copyrighted, © Sabina Becker 2003. All rights reserved. No part of this material may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher. |
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