Entry - MAG Poetry Prize 2009


by Michael Bowden

  Often I'll wait with bated breath,
While on Grecian steps I lie,
For their clamour. But, with a whimpering sigh
Of wasted hope, I stand alone.
I called...but received no reply.
And what remains (beside frustration)?
A chasm; with a scaffold of sin.
Languid, lifeless labouring.
The cornerstone of its foundation
Is based and structured from within.
When they, sighting this soulless form,
Shed tears that tear apart my soul;
Then I'll refuse this wretched role
That makes me lame. I will proclaim,
"My pen shall rest forevermore!"
The heart is light that does not beat.
The phantom free who cannot feel
(though worth its woeful weight in steel).
The setting sun? It moves me none,
But  to their majesty I need not kneel.
Yet every quickening step concedes
Rhythm rushing back through me.
This sheltered cage, built to resist,
Is shattered by one natural kiss.
The bounding, bouncing, boisterous beat
Taps in tandem with my feet.
So  sounds of silence, thoughts of fear;
Such feelings are so far from here.
Boom! The drums that blast aflame
Announce them, and the thunderous horns
Shake me to my very core,
Afflicting me with a glorious pain
To retell tales told long before. 

Added: 27.04.2009