The greatest poem
is the one you're writing,
sparks flying from your pen
as from Vulcan's furnace,
hand and arm lubricated
and calibrated with a mind
that's up on a ladder
at its far end,
hopefully receiving notes
from an angel or two—
fresh bread,
Rumi called it,
a little piece of Soul,
'out there' and sculpted
to perfection...
or near perfection,
you see the next day
as you fix a flaw
that's appeared overnight,
and a few more
the day after that. Then
the Life-force flows
into a new creation,
this one has hardened
and is left to feed the birds,
and some day when you've
forgotten about it completely,
you'll come upon it again, feel awed,
and wonder, 'Who wrote that? '
Max Reif
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/39-the-greatest-poem/
