Just recently I've been tied up with physical things, and the poetic impulse has been very much on the 'back boiler'. But I've been looking through old stuff this evening, written in one of the 'pressure cooker' NAPO events, and felt it was time to give this one an airing
Not what it's about
It's not the physical pleasure
that makes these men get off,
or that makes these things worthwhile.
It's not even the adrenaline rush,
surging and buzzing through your veins
as you hang from a cliff face,
or you leap your motorcycle
over a humpbacked bridge,
or do a perfect 'ragdoll' fall
from a horse without any injury.
It's not the song of a six foot blade
keening over your head
as you duck beneath its threat
and shamelessly exult in your timing.
It's the feeling that just for a few seconds,
here and there, in a world of uncertainties,
you are in charge.
Your life in your own hands,
and, if you chose,
you could throw it away.
But you never do. Because if you did...
People would think you'd failed,
made a mistake.
And that's not what it's about.
General Poetry - post, comment, review, critique
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