What They Say About Poets

Poets are sensitive people, they say,

Made out of fire and flowers and untameable ferocity,

raging in a storm of words 

that pours through the cloud and fog of a pen,

ripping through the blankness of paper.

 

Poets are beautiful people, they say,

Gathering the joy and pain of the world in a chamber of their heart, in a lump in their throat.

Alone in crowds, alive in books,

Writing awake and asleep, in the open and in nooks.

 

Poets do not succumb to time, they say,

May it be the little, shaking hand attempting- for the first time- to write more than two lines,

or the wrinkled wrist trembling under the weight of bygone times;

Etching eternity into paper.

 

In the tales of poets they speak of, perhaps it is so

That a poet’s life is a deep chest where poetry is aglow.

For they are weavers of warmth and rawness and joy and woe.

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