POETRY IS A MAGIC TRICK

“You could do a magic trick.”
—My son, Ezekiel, on how to entertain the audience at a poetry reading.
 
First is the seeing
without looking, the sudden appearance
of pictures in the mind:
a white kite diving
below the green tops of trees;
a brown strand of seaweed
encircling your bare ankle;
a full moon, yellow and fat,
lounging on roof peaks.

Next is the hearing
of voices and sounds,
booming and fading
far out of earshot:
the deep beat of surf on the beach;
the low drone of a slow flying plane;
the distant howl of a wolf,
werewolf, or human being,
disturbed by its own blood.

Then there is the forming
of lines on a page
that had been blank,
the finished work, new and complete,
as permanent as a certificate,
more valuable than currency.

And then the grand finale: the movement
of the entire poem
from here
to there
without wires, mirrors, false
doors, or misdirection,
only the pure and certain power
of your own mind.


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