Poets and Poetry
Sometimes I sit looking out the window -
A book on my lap – not reading.
The radio soft with song – not listening.
Or lying upon my pillow - not sleeping.
Giving my brain free rein
To pursue its peculiar passages.
And this scope often spins into 'Poetry'
That esoteric web of human connection
What is it exactly? Poetry?
Who writes it? And why?
Who is so driven to explore and express
The extremes of sensibility and existence
As only 'I' know it.
Poetry demands an arrogance of conviction
That 'I rule the journey of my own ideas!'
Yet understanding wholly that
'My thoughts are no deeper, or braver,
Or more true
Than anyone else's.'
A bizarre mix of defiance and defence
Committed to print
Boldly cast into the cold world.
Not necessarily with laughable swagger.
Often, more with a certain longing
That 'someone else - one person else -
Might see as I see, think as I think
Understand what I'm trying to understand.'
And who reads poetry besides other 'poets'?
Not many, I warrant.
But it hardly matters as the circle spreads
Like gathering fish in a massive net
Of common interests
Ha! These are fine thoughts indeed!
Very boldly rendered
The keys pulsing through my fingers:
Words! Words! Words! The World of Words!
And – HA! again. I often wonder
If we poets do not drone the dirge of the damned
And frolic with the frog-footed
Just for the hell of it - the sheer 'hell of it'!
We are a convoluted lot
Much on the 'precious' side -
But Ha! Ha! Ha! I really value your company.