Poetry lives
And in the land where happiness is banned
They tried to wipe out beauty.
The burnt the musicians on pyres of their own instruments,
Cut off the legs of the dancers and the hands of the artists;
They cut out the tongues of those who told stories,
And electrocuted the brains of writers
Until words no longer filled their now empty heads.
Then they rounded up the most dangerous of all –
Those who distilled the essence –
Those who found the metre to exaggerate the feeling
And convey the emotion;
Those who used rhythm and rhyme
To tease minds and ears into ecstasy and understanding.
These they nailed to the huge tree to slowly dry in the sun.
Laughingly they called it the poet tree.
But poetry still lived.
To be creative one must be brave.
To be a poet you must sacrifice.
The poets’ very lives and deaths were poems.
Their life force entered the poet tree
So every leaf and flower
Shone with the essence of life
For that is poetry –
And poetry lives in the very breath of the planet
And cannot be destroyed.
Opher 2.9.2017
I was inspired to write this by the horrors of ISIS. In their wisdom they decided that all dance and music is evil. They banned it. They burnt musical instruments and lashed anyone who sang or danced. They cut off the faces of statues and burnt painting that shoed faces. They desecrated the temples and churches of other faiths and destroyed the icons. For it is written in the Koran that these things are evil.
Yet the musicians hid their instruments. The writers hid their tools. The dancers practiced alone. And when Isis were finally driven out their tongues, legs and fingers exploded with joy.