What must I do?
04 May 2025
MICHAEL DOM
I must hold things inside until they are
mature and dried. I must bury them well,
so that they become a seed, sprouting with
beauty of life, in a new expression.
I must speak, not when the time might seem right,
not might nor right; my time must be needful.
The root that cracks the pavement has not might,
nor might it be right. Truth is powerful.
I must hear what is not said, not secret,
often in my head, madness to the sane.
The sky makes the sea blue, though it is not.
It sounds in deeper hues, like you, Old Shoe.
I must see what is shown in bas-relief.
Disaster without regret we forget.
It is grief that gives depth. Your sweet laughter
leaves only colours, which fade like flowers.
I must taste the bitterness in the sweet
and like it, but not be like it. I must
eat words and ideas, whispers and screams.
You may eat cake, I must endure it.
I must stretch out my once crumpled pages
in these memos I write to you. Flesh them
and dress them, in a way that you know well,
so you can say that, they are of you too.
I must confront that speech which is not true
And listen for the trust I seek in you,
swallow your eyes that my voice rings your verse:
What I must do must scale the multiverse.
"A poem is more than an apt and colourful description of life’s inspirations
and tribulations; it has surfaces and shades, depth and dimensions.
A poem asks to be touched and tasted, plumbed and contemplated" - MTD
This poem was concluded and published
on Saturday 3 May 2025 at 9:15 pm
in my home at Gannet Street Lae
Integral in the bard.
Posted by: Lindsay F Bond | 13 May 2025 at 10:03 PM
Hen-Wen says that, "A poem is like a musical fart. Unlikely and embarrassing but thankfully short-lived; and you'll know it when you hear it but never may (want to) repeat it the same way, except that it is memorable when it happens, even if briefly, and even though no one likes the odour everybody does farts, just not musically".
But she's a pig.
Posted by: Michael Dom | 12 May 2025 at 11:16 PM
I've consulted with Hen-Wen, the oracular pig, and she said oink-oink so, I don't disagree.
The seventh verse is for you Lindsay Bond, for knowing somehow that it was missing - I found it earlier this afternoon.
Posted by: Michael Dom | 12 May 2025 at 02:58 PM
Please forgive me if I disagree, but I understand that the Oracle of Delphy was once asked, "What is a poem?" and she said:
A poem should have a story to tell.
Its lines must scan and they must rhyme well,
With a distinctive rhythm with an easy beat,
Like pounding hooves or marching feet,
With words that are plain and easy to say,
With meanings as clear as the light of day,
With statements bold and opinions strong,
And not too short and not too long.
Posted by: Chips Mackellar | 11 May 2025 at 05:59 PM
What Must I Do is an exceptionally satisfying poem to read and I hope the same applied to Michael in its composition.
As we age, most of us mature – a process that never ends. And in old age, where I now sit for some unknown time, that same rule holds.
I have previously let Michael know how much I enjoy his poetry, and I’m delighted that his muse continues to generate these works of such inspiration and quality.
Posted by: Keith Jackson AM | 08 May 2025 at 05:58 AM
Inhale each as breath, a seventh e're heaven?
Posted by: Lindsay F Bond | 04 May 2025 at 10:20 AM