Megan

(poems go here)RECOGNITION By: Megan Quick I can glide for a time Above my wretched candor And I don’t have to see broken faces Reflected in my own. Terrible still, the wretchedness Anchored to my chest Feeding me my blood And my battered language, As others go forth And tears come to they’re eyes Borne from that moment It eluded me yet again. Tragic for my pursuit Because, I frantically pull from my own head, Ignoring, or disengaging All those things that birth poetry And isn’t this poetry? Isn’t this inspiration? Simplicity renders it? No that discredits it That cheapens it But in my hands things cheapen. It’s not simplicity Is it peace? That strand, tied To the heart, drawing forth to a loved one Or a formidable sky, (whether a threat or promise) Is it perfected translation, Borne out of peace Crashing into moments of tumult? It’s the resurfacing, Translation is not perfected It’s begotten by strong gentle hands Those who can wring out of words, the truth of their essence They catch me And I soar in the wake of their words, Laughingly changed, Beyond recognition of me.