Saturday, August 29, 2009

Poets: Poem

Poets have no tools, never
No tangible tools that is to say
Some people even call them fools
Poets have a different worldview
Built on emotions, sensations, lacerations
Splinters of pain
And all that the heart holds to be true.
Poets have no right way or wrong way
(Its true that they often lose their way anyway) :
Poetry has always been difficult to define
Scrambled thoughts, scrambled lines
That is to say
Perfect lines, perfect rhymes
Clockwork metric thoughts and thou and thine
Stanzas, couplets and all the rest of it
My emotions flew jagged against the sky
My thoughts often threatened to run away
Like me; I speak about pain and despair
People who are going to die
Corpus callosum, existence ad infinitum
Transient joy, the rainbow arching
Spectral armies marching
Tramping, tramping down history's worn-out lanes
And the lines in a stranger's face
His apparent despair, his evident pain
Jerk me from those absolute, imperfect rhymes
I am myself corpus callosum-like again.
COPYRIGHT: Rani Turton

No comments :

Post a Comment