Why do some of us write poetry, while other people won’t even waste a moment reading it? Why is it that poets fall in love with words and invite them in to play most every day? Is it a genetic thing or does it depend on up-bringing: the old nature vs. nurture debate?
I delighted in this poem that fellow poet and dVerse frequenter, Susan Daniels, posted on Open Link Night a week or two ago. I even printed it to show my husband, one of those who is apparently lacking the gene, in hopes that he might better understand why I’m so weird. A man of few words, I don’t know if it took or not. But I suspect those of us who prowl about poetry communities in the Blogosphere will relate to much of what Susan expresses here:
It Is Dangerous to Love A Poet
It is dangerous to love a poet
who blows emotion into rainbow animals;
orange giraffes, pink dogs, purple monkeys–
her balloon bestiary handed off to anyone
who stops to admire her skill and their lightness.
That some are shaped to your likeness is completely accidental,
she says, bouncing your persona palm to palm until it pops.
It is troubling to love a poet
who paints seduction in shadows
on metaphorical flesh, concentric patterns
traced on paper when the lines you want her to read out loud
are written by vessels under your skin, shivered
and goosebumped for lips busy kissing or cursing a muse.
You will always be the interloper in that marriage.
It is lonely to love a poet
who stays up until dawn, choosing the right shade of red
to spraypaint your name on the moon, her graffiti
bold enough to read from any bedroom window–
no solace when her side of the bed echoes scent
and is empty of presence. In her chase of the right word,
she will not hear you murmur her name as you sleep.
It is useless to confront a poet.
She will take the pain you bring,
clay thrown on the wheel of her vision
spun and shaped to perfection,
glazed with a sad you will never see,
fired to a form that sings unbreakable passion.
It is joy to love a poet.
Her words lift from beyond the depth of bone
to wing from lips, floating each shade
in the spectrum of feeling your name evokes,
and you are caught, dazzled
and doomed as any moth or firefly, chasing
and breathing the lit cloud only she owns.
Copyright 2013 Susan Daniels. Used with permission.
I will venture a guess that many of you have indulged in Ars Poetica–writing a poem about poetry, or perhaps about poets. I will include Mr. Linky at the bottom of this post, should you like to share one of your own.
If you haven’t yet heard the news, Frank Watson has edited and published an Anthology featuring poets who participate in the dVerse Poetry Community. It is available through Amazon.com You will recognize many of these contributors–I’m among good company with 5 featured poems. You will discover many names you most likely know: Brian Miller, Glenn Butkus, Tony Maude, Mary Kling, Karin Gustafson, John Anstie, and Claudia Schoenfeld, to name but a few.
Should you be interested, this anthology is available on Amazon in print edition and on Kindle. Purchase it HERE.