A Poem on Poetry
there is a poem in all things--
the dawn as fragrant as a chosen bride,
the beauty of night where darkness gleams;
in the fields, life; in cities, music.
those who can recognize a poem are rare,
diamond is often taken for carbon,
the sky is seen as reflected in ditch-water,
the outlaw’s a patriot and the patriot a fraud.
a poem is created by one who is also a god;
the mind of the poet often performs miracles--
a few coarse-grained words, apprehended,
become bullets and roses.
a poem bears its own measures, melody, rhythm,
the three elements of its loveliness;
and freedom is the wing of a poem
that makes it soar.
a poem is a unique riddle whose answer
lies in the throb of each sentient heart,
it is riches in poverty, brilliant light in darkness,
and pure honey in the bitter poison.
it is a rocky mountain and a nugget of gold,
a camel that passes through the needle’s eye…
the true poem is an arrow
that pierces the target it chooses point-blank!