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Where Release Ends and Composure Begins
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On Poetry What defines a poet?
Is poetry a leaking faucet of emotions
that can be controlled?
A vault that is kept closed
until a flood of memories is triggered
and they become desperate for release.
Poetry is a contraption for sorting out emotions:
where feelings are fermented and smeared on the page.
The words will themselves into being,
appearing on the sheet by their own volition.
I am merely their mediator, establishing peace
between ink and paper;
my only purpose: to assist in their melding.
I find myself digging up bodies regularly,
scattering their remains in search of life,
praying inspiration will provoke their resurrection.
Maybe poetry is the outlet for those of us who
are courageous enough to display our wounds
but only when layered beneath abstraction.
A poet reveals only a glimpse of himself
leaving some concealed, keeping his mystery intact.
Poetry is the very essence of a masquerade ball
where no one is as he appears.
So, at times, I appear aloof. I paint a distorted picture,
letting the reader find meaning within the inferences,
and try to decipher the underlying metaphors.
A poem resembles a blurred photograph;
the reconstruction of a moment in need of reassessment,
to find understanding beneath the glossy surface.
What defines a poet?
There is no absolute truth, I suppose.
The only truth I know
is a weeping pen dries my tears.
