A Thought On Poetry
I wonder how a poet thinks?
Bound by circumstance or random occurrences,
as they rise and fall like changes in weather,
lost in the turmoil of cloud cover and threatening wind storms?
If I were a poet perhaps I would know of it,
and better understand and recognize
the idiosyncrasies of time and space, word and phrase
when feelings and emotions. love and hate rise and fall.
I am neither Shakespeare, Browning, Frost nor Bly
not even Whitman, Plath, Bishop, Yates or Hughes
but surely their thought and imagery portrayed
could tantalize and tweak my interest into some form of expression.
A new generation rises, hopefully, I am one
who often lacks conformity to form and meter, which might be best
for each of us who must write the words most meanigful to us,
cannot help but ring true to who we are within ourselves.
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