It has to be music.
Has to scream out from the shelves and never allow dust to settle.
It has to shake loose from the page,
stop conversations at the bar,
leave trails of itself hanging in the air
like ribbons of spot-lit cigarette smoke
It must be capable of writing itself on walls,
able to paint city skylines in glorious technicolour, or
a million shades of gray.
It has to take root in the cracks between paving stones
and spread its fingers out against the canvas of the sky.
It has to keep rhythm,
It has to keep time.
It has to make news rhyme with actual fact
and truth rhyme with beauty.
It has to speak
Has to put words in peoples’ mouths
Make new shapes for tongues to hold
Open tired eyes to new ways of seeing.
It must birth its own language with lips capable of kissing scars
and it must stand
It must stand as testament to the fact
that words can draw blood
and make that blood sing
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
I unashamedly nicked this from the British Council website, knowing that it will disappear in a few days time. This is Jacob Sam-la Rose's poetry manifesto: