Words rings strangely
in each poet’s heart
the lonely night wakes
at the note of the flute
Sometimes I would,
given half a chance,
make it to the poet’s
merry on wine
to put my ears to his bosom
loneliness and the chirping of birds
blades of grass shaking in the wind
streams cascading down
from cragged, steep hills
All these sounds come
purling down to me.
At night I put my ears
to my wife’s expectant swell
The clamour of words recedes
into songs in the quiet of night
as my lonely moments sag
at the burden of pregnant breast
The words in a poet’s heart are separate
Sage, common citizen, warring horses,
the poet who spawned these words
committed suicide last night
The burden of words creaks
the search for meaning entangles
leaving the poet wailing and torn
but the cat’s nine lives
inhere in the poet.
He is primordial
he disdains storms
and scours the earth
you banish him or poison him
his words stay put
in the fragrance of the hasnahana
in the stained glasses
and the rain drenched stars.
Hermit, priest, helmsman
lover, actor, soldier
each poet is a dancing moon
above fields of swaying corn.
No, not me alone
If you’d cock your ears
you will hear in his bosom
the rise and roll of loneliness.
