The words
come to me

demanding to be
written

& are bitterly
disappointed

to find that I am
me
not
you.

Somehow, they had managed to
turn up in the wrong head

mistaking me for you
because I was thinking

so much
of you.

Too late now
they come to realise

their mistake.

Reluctantly they
agree to stay & be

this
poem.

I can see they are not
impressed.

Missing Bulgaria & ending up
in England in an Irish head

is bad but badder still
geting the sex wrong

& being this guy!

A word breaks down
begins to cry.

'She's got what the Arabs call tarab! '
one word is heard to remark.

Yes...yes it's that intoxication of the senses
beyond all reason! '
another word elucidates....almost hallucinates.

'Hey shit for brains! '
a bunch of words cruelly calls

'Onelia would have written us
better than this! '

Some words try to hide
in the space between the lines.

Some words hide
in the surrounding empty space

refusing to come out
or even talk about

...'it! '

Some words live lives
of quiet desperation

silently
erasing themselves.

Some words hijack
this page

& turning it into
a paper aeroplane

demand to be
taken to Sofia.

They are already incensed
to have missed your birthday.

So, if by your dreaming head
a paper aeroplane appears

full of frustrated distraught
words

take them
they are yours.

You the better poet
than I could ever be.

You... the great you
me...merely me.

Dónall Dempsey

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/tarab-poem-for-onelia-on-the-celebration-of-the-day-of-her-birth/