Poetry is not words…
Not page nor pen.
Take this out and you will see.
What is poetry then?
What could it possibly be
If you limit this use of expression.
Isn’t this how poetry sings?
With words? Small words, long words—
Simple words. Light words.
Words that sing to the gut
And to the ear.
And this isn’t how poetry breathes?
I don’t believe so. I don’t believe it is.
Poetry is the break, the beat,
The human machine,
The red scarf,
The marble gumdrop.
The silent dog and singing leaves.
Poetry is sounds, not words
In which we hear. Poetry
Is the maze of Keats
And Whitman, Komunyakaa.
Poetry is a confession…
A rope to tie these minds
Firmly onto a metal seat and catechize
Until they weep. To whip
A confession out ourselves.
This is poetry.
Poetry is all water and air,
Stars in dirt and dirt in stars.
Poetry is their voice,
Poetry is our own voice.
Poetry is this invisible touch
Tickling and scraping our bones,
Our bones which words could never
Rainbow
A reach.
Masiela Lusha
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-song-of-poetry/
