I Share My Poetry Too Soon
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 10:24 PM | Comments (0)
February 16, 2020Floodgate Poetry
Sometimes, when I least expect it, something opens up inside me. A Red Sea parts and I am flooded once again. That's what happened to me today. I wouldn't call it a state of inspiration, but more a feeling wanting to be freed. During the course of an hour, the following emerged, requiring just a bit of cleaning up afterwards, not unlike a drunk about to enter paradise.
ONE
I am not proud to say this,
but I want someone
to look into the mirror of who I am
and finally see themselves,
but more than that,
as soon as they see their reflection,
I want them to dance in the diminishing space between us,
their movement a language I do not speak,
an embrace unheld, the love we make,
lighthouse keeper within me
just about to turn in for the night.
TWO
The moon I am howling at without a sound
is sometimes full and sometimes not,
many waves made larger by its pull
somewhere in a world I will never go.
Poets, saints, and lovers
far more wide awake than I,
have also stood beneath this orb,
their stunned silence having the same origins as mine.
It leaks out of course, this mutant palpatation of the heart,
in a thousand different ways:
tea made for a friend,
the touch of a cheek,
a glance held just a little bit longer than it needs to be.
THREE
I am reading the great hieroglyphic of my soul
and am actually deciphering it,
knowing there is nothing left to do but praise.
FOUR
The space between thoughts is where my life begins,
God's temple, cathedral, and mosque,
places with no need to be swept
they already being clean,
no incense needs to be lit there,
its scent already sweet,
no prayers need to be said,
the brief pause between now and whatever comes next
the perfect invocation.
FIVE
"What is freedom? the young monk asked his Master.
"What does it mean to be free and how do I get there?"
The Master, smiling, looked up from his cup of tea.
"Do you see this cup of tea, my friend?
Do you see how it has taken on the shape
of that which it has been poured into
and how it warms my hands here on this chilly morning?"
SIX
I read my poems to cows,
I love the way they moo
and turn their heads just slightly towards me
though I do not know what moves them.
Is it the words I speak
the sound of my voice,
or do they think I'm hiding a carrot behind my back?
SEVEN
It is not the poem, song, or work of art,
it is that which moves us to create,
to write, to sing, to paint,
the bold attempt at expression
by that small, shelled creature,
pecking from within,
wings folded into its side.
EIGHT
Here is the secret:
There is no secret,
but if that's the secret,
then there IS a secret,
and if there is a secret,
then the second line of this poem
is a complete and utter lie
even though I was doing my best
to speak the truth.
Mitch Ditkoff
My book of poetry
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