I know the force of words, their urgent calling,
not just words that draw polite applause
but words that even the dead find disturbing
break through their graves and walk abroad.
Though censors edit or publishers ignore them
words knuckle down, buckle under, keep on, cut through,
hammering away till express trains come fawning
to lick poetry's rough hands, tame and meek.
I know the force of words, like a tissue flung
under dancers heels, they seem empty air,
but man is made of backbone, heart and tongue.
Version of a poem by Mayakovsky by Peter Jukes
