I wonder if poets feel the need to define poetry.
I wonder if they wish to attach a definition to what they hear in their hearts when they read and compose in verse. Most of them come up with a definition throughout their life, but I’d like to know if that if because they are asked for it (by the public, the readers, reporters, etc.) or because they are compelled by some inner force to look for one.
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Is this a thought?
A summon word?
A key to a door?
A comforting pat?
It is whatever we need it to be when we spin the “friend” in the merry-go-round of our mind.
It may never be there, but it is always in the quests of our lives.
endless fields of white
lie before me
covered in hope –
there is little fright:
am I able to see,
am I going to cope
with what askes to be seen?
will I know what they mean
when words walk by
accross the field
of white paper?
Not a hurricane,
just some wind – stronger than ever before.
A storm perhaps.
That came and passed.
I looked around.
Everything was wrecked, turned upside-down
broken, torn or missing.
I looked inside. Everything inside me was still.
Quieter than ever before.
There was silence as an afterthought.
There was a smell.
Of things gone.
There was the opening
of an empty space
that had once been full. Absence.
Memory overlapping the present.
Mirage of the past idle atop remains.
corridors from a bleak past –
mankind at its worst.
quivers and whispers linger inside dark, cold cells
that witnessed atrocity and dehumanisation.
buildings for the degrading and dissolving of all kindness or decency.
there are memories engraved in the human DNA that torment us at night.
we call them nightmares.
sometimes they are reminiscences of a conscience shaken from its foundations.
we roam among ruins, recollecting history lessons taught in schools
but we are actually there not to forget what must never be repeated.
Relief. Ease. Evenness.
to see his body frame cloud the front door,
to hear his muffled voice coming through the rooms,
to find a smile inside his gaze, the shiver in my heart.
Together at home.
Out of my solitude came my social disposition.
Out of my darkness arose the laughter of the others.
Out of my despair were beautiful poems formed.
Out of my story they picked the details to make a picture.
The picture followed me like an undesired shadow.
The farther I pushed it back, the more rigid it became.
I made so much light around me that no shadows could be shaped.
I now live inside a sun, black and hollow in its core.