I suspect, without even knowing it, I have continued to be intrigued by the concept, power, and endless possibility of metaphor – the inspiration for last week’s newsletter and poem. The poem that follows, arrived unbidden and honestly, took on a life of its own, as I sat working on an entirely different newsletter. There it was inside me demanding to come out. Perhaps it was inspired by the eternal soul, spirit, flesh, and bone of the poetry that has had a home inside me since I was a small child – before I knew what the word poetry meant.
As the words tumbled to the page, I wondered if I was writing the poem or, the poem was writing me…
The Poem Begins
slowly
think of icicles melting
in a March sun dawn
beguiling darkness
into arms of light
think of night
cimmerian unblemished
wounded by the steel
of stars
meadows scarred
by soulless winter
healed beneath
the liniment of spring think of waves
fondling the shore breezes
humming canticles to
trees the thrum
of bees
the poem
unrolls itself
knows itself tossing words
wishful
into air rising
for a moment catch them
or they evanesce
pilfering
the page the poem
a promise portent posturer
pretender knows you better
than you know yourself
claws at memories cajoles confession
its intention always
just a bit unclear still
you hear
it speaking through you speaking
to you speaking in
a language you attempt
to understand
never knowing
where the poem is going
acquiescent aspirant
awaiting
its command…
~~~
…the poem
begins
in the rush
of birth’s first breath
ends
in the voicelessness
of death…
