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FLRC Newsletter - Mar 2004 |
| Tracking Meter | |
How many feet are on the line?
"To your marks." My mind's a blank-
"Set." The meters wait.
This pause gathers all eternity.
Our chronomix clicks on relentlessly,
antithesis of ambiguity.
One step, one meter, can separate
excellence from mediocrity.
In this pursuit, inverting poetry,
Titles make the finish, not the start.
Track introduces science into art.
How can I be captured, judged,
set free in rhyming words? Poems
struggle for meaning; art
is uncertainty. Feet per line,
lines per poem, limits creativity.
Why should I lose track
of time, immersed in rhythms
less measured than my strides?
Subject myself to subjectivity?
We put our best foot up to the line:
one sharp, clear crack!
of starter's pistol, and I show my back
to anyone whose stride and cadence
cannot measure mine. The only judge
is time. No meaning beyond
my silent sweeping stride
in flight. One thousandth of a second
admits eternity. Between step and step,
breath and breath, with meters underfoot-
my feet measure the unrelenting line.
Running has a judge that poems lack.
How can they measure words, emotion, rhyme
against any meter on my track?
The only judge of poetry is-
now I see!
We all are judged by time.
The poem is me.
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