Poem by Stephen D. Bolen
The Qargizine, Spring 2017 #6
I had taken my rise to power
Each dance on a ring,
The boundaries of my moments,
The mat—always free.
I would hit the skulls
Crash down upon frames of all
Unlucky souls.
Bands around our ankles
We fought and bled to clocks
—and I was untouchable.
My graceful counters,
The legs I’d claim and quickly set down.
My rounds and the machine
My body had become.
Each movement as lightening, yet placed
So accurately as thread breaking through
Needles barriers, my pride—I matched.
In the golden armor I was lifted
Out of this darkness
Into raw instinct.
Some would cower, all would fall,
The opponents of my life
Would be held to their bounded backs.
I composed history in the honest form
Of technique
Undeniably my arm would rise,
Then I found defeat—
Handed to me by a faceless stance,
In a breath, under the light, I lost
My name, my dream, my passion,
My pride.
My hands had been strong,
My hands had been faithful,
Praised—
then at my side,
my hand did not rise.
