Chanda Katonga Poet Free verse

POETRYSOUP

I did not find PoetrySoup.
It summoned me.

For the hungry soul
is guided
by invisible hands.

This is not a café.
It is a temple
disguised as words.

Here,
souls do not compete—
they remember.

Mark Pringle did not build a platform.
He opened a gate.
A quiet gate
for wandering spirits
who lost themselves
in a loud world.

In a world that devours prophets,
he made a table.
In a world that silences seers,
he gave them breath.

Here,
poetry is not decoration.
It is divination.

Each Souper
is both pilgrim and priest,
serving fragments of eternity
in human language.

I stop here often.
Not to escape—
but to return.

To those still wandering,
starving in noise,
thirsty for meaning—

Come.

This is not soup.
This is remembrance.
This is alchemy.
This is home.

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