Thursday, November 17, 2005

I May Be a Poet

17 November 2005, 11:29 P

I may be a poet

Though to name one's self thus means very little
One's name ought not to come from one's self
And yet I feel the need to say it

I may be a poet

For where one sees a sycamore
I see a child reaching hard for her father
A maiden yearning for her lover
And in the tire swinging from her branches
I see the two, the child and the woman
Hiding fast in shame of having lost all
For having lost both father and lover

And where one spies a butterfly
I note her yellowed wing, tipped with
The fire of setting suns
Anxious at the thought of being seen
Anxious at the thought of not
Angry for the anxious nature of her flight
Flying nonetheless, ceasing not to lavish
Kisses on the daisies of her emerald lea

The bird which wings her path across the sky
She is a woman rising from the ashes of a life
Which outlived someone else's intent
She'll fly and dazzle 'til her strength is spent
Then fall back to the earth once more
To begin her task again

And where one finds a river flowing wide
I see the grief of passing years, churning
Through the rapids and the rocks
And through the quiet places too
Always through the silent rushes
Teaching them to stand up straight and tall
Against her current
Until they take their very life from her
Gracious brutality

I may be a poet

For once I sat within these walls
And fancied it a stagnant pool
The very nature of the space
Implied that what had once entered in
Would never find a rill running out again
The pictures hung hard, the couch sat heavy
The very air refused to move
Nor to welcome anything which might bring life

Yet now I see the paintings free to morph
Into realities I had not yet imagined could be
Truth flows in, around these walls
Carries all through time, about and in
And back again, out through the doors

This place is but a passing moment
I see, feel, hear, taste Reality becoming
As I sit within these walls
Now become a lovely streamlet bearing all
Including me, through space and time

In time it turns a mighty river
Carrying this life into Eternity
Where I shall no longer feel the need
To name myself a poet

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George MacDonald

"Home is ever so far away in the palm of your hand, and how to get there it is of no use to tell you. But you will get there; you must get there; you have to get there. Everybody who is not at home, has to go home."

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