I talk too much, too loud, too soon,
like one who pulls a sword from stone
and speaks
before the King has had his turn.

My words are ghosts of moments gone,
the poetry you want to hear is not my own,
but yours, the sacred sound long buried
in your bones -- the seed once sown,
the rune,
something born within you to be told.

This is what you want to hear,
the perfect eloquence of one
upon the throne,
whose prayer, these words, are heard
before a single word is said.

Live there! Breathe deep! Fly!
Free the priests and, if the angels die,
know you'll be dancing in the air.
That's the poetry you want to hear!

What you really want is this:
The lyrical flood of fullness within,
the drowning in bliss,
the letting down, like mother's milk,
of all there ever is --
the place where all the poets you have ever loved
are riding homeward on a train, alone,
looking out a window on a perfect summer day.

What they see is only their reflection
and, just beyond, golden fields of hay.
Somewhere in between them both their breathing slows,
they close their eyes and pause,
clear they never have to write again or think.
This is the poetry you long to hear,
when all the poets turn for home
and all their blood has turned to ink.

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at May 2, 2008 01:02 AM

Post a comment