A Beginning Poet To the Master

The master once told me All the things I shouldn’t do when I write poetry. I shouldn’t ensnare my reader with a complex plot Forcing them to fight their way out of my lines. I shouldn’t entrap them with language Hiding my meaning underneath layers of flowery effusions But the master did not say what to do And neither did he say what poetry is. And my mind jumps rope with questions of metaphysics- Is poetry only poetry when it pours forth out of mind And onto paper. Or do I see poetry? Do I touch it when I roll the windows down, feeling the cool breeze Draping my hand lazily out the window As if to grasp another’s Their hand always just out of reach As I cruise down this straight shot and into an eternity.