The Sublime in Poetry
Just past
where the world of the atom ends
there are spaces that we try to fill
or pretend they don't exist.
Hollows that harbor silence
or an unshaped need,
the imprint of something
the mind can't conceive.
Music makes its way there
and knocks on the door,
takes its seat to hear
the sublime and capture
in glorious notes
what can't be said
in words. The chords
of creation sound
in the chambers of the ear.
Poetry goes there
with its clumsy feet, trying
to fit the formless into a cage,
give beauty a face,
fumbling to shape shadows
into three dimensional space.
And yet it is the word
that brings things into being,
gives each its sacred name.
Language the blunt instrument
of the poet's art,
the poem a sanctum
to house the holy embers
of creations spark.
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