July 15th, 2013

crumpet2

THE POET TO HER YOUNG COMRADES 10

It's almost sexual, that sort of rush.
A meeting listens to you. Feel their hearts
your hand upon their strings. That's how it starts.
You get addicted to that breathy hush

in meetings when you speak. Like good cocaine
it makes you briefly sharper than you are.
Words race round corners as you'd drive a car
hand brutal on the wheel. And it's your brain

whose tyres you burn, but also it's a cause.
That's more important than soliloquys,
or disagreement sobbing on its knees.
It is the people's struggle, and not yours

Beware of leading. Easy to enjoy
the ride. The revolution's not your toy.
crumpet2

THE POET TO HER YOUNG COMRADES 11

You do the things that only you can do,
be useful, kind in unexpected ways
to sisters and to comrades. When malaise
creeps over you, accept it's like the flu

you are allowed to spend a few days sick
a few days off your game. Recovery
is sometimes slow, never obligatory.
You learn doubt's shape. It fits, a sudden click,

part of analysis, that's never done
always in progress. Brick on brick gets placed.
Each momentary problem that you've faced
part of the process. Always try to shun

the simple lying versions leaders sell
that silence stories only you can tell