The Perfect Poem
Sometimes
you are given the key
to decipher the language
of trees, of rivers, the secret
liturgy of the earth.
It is not a language
of words but a kind
of momentary infusion
of feeling, unfiltered,
so pure that it slips through
the coarseness of speech
and arrives as a sudden
insight in the full clarity
of itself.
You try and capture
its reflection or its echo in words,
attempt to coral its presence
within the confines
of a page but it always
escapes leaving whispers
in its wake or a pang
in a place where something
should be.
There are days
when you pause and listen
to what murmurs up
from deep within the well
of yourself, all the poems
you have written
most of which have been
forgotten or have become
mute or are now no more
than empty shells abandoned
by what was there.
And there are some
that rise up out of the silence
and once more claim
the ear of your soul, convey
a formless magic
that seems to reside there
just below the words.
There are no perfect poems
just those that have made room
for something beyond
the self to speak.
These are the ones you keep.
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