The Poet's World: Poem

The Poet's World

How many poets have these pavements known
Stepping and storming, thinking and weaving
Lines into dreams; these cracked intellectual stones
Have mutely remained still under the onslaught of words:
Silent in the fury of the poet's world.

This twisted tree has seen me too
Trying to reason out what I did,
The evidence of the illogical emotion
And the rational linear world.

Why did the clouds run away?
Was there a reason the moon suddenly hid?
Why did the waves slosh and fall? Fated to follow the tide,
Feelings and fate, the poems pour out.

The city waits, accepting the flow
Of verse that, thrown into the river
Flowed on, flowed on. The river takes all
And life carries on, carries on.

Copyright: Rani Turton

Poets: Poem

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Poets

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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.

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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.

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COPYRIGHT: Rani Turton