inside the dark, forbidden spots,
like beautiful forget-me-nots?
It’s Sunday night, right after dinner
(which was not meant to make me thinner) ,
a favourite pen finds its sly way
into my hand, once there, to stay.
And out they roll, exotic fruits,
like handsome dwarves with purple boots,
the paper shows anticipation
and shakes as if an operation
were imminent to change its sex!
But seeing that I slowly flex
my digits in creative mode,
just waiting for this motherlode
of colour-coded fairytale
to come to me, one timid male,
the paper smoothes itself flat
and I discard my thinking hat.
There must be floodgates in my mind
and when they open, what’s behind
comes tumbling out, (or some of it) ,
a mix of brilliance and of shit.
Though from experience I have learned,
as far as judgment is concerned
it’s best to keep your left brain closed,
as it can harshly be opposed
to anything that’s come my way.
Sometimes I think that its dismay
originates in jealousy,
or boredom, which, at least to me
makes sense. Imagine Mathematics,
And Physics over Acrobatics,
so analytical and judging,
staunchly opposed to any fudging
of figures, or of life’s own rules.
The thinking brain abhors all fools.
It can’t write poetry at all
because its vision is too small.
Which does remind me of a teacher
who seems to use the same procedure
to judge all poets and their writing.
His commentary may be biting,
or arrogantly condescending,
and in its meanness never-ending,
but, if you look at his creations
you get the definite sensation
that something crucial might be lacking,
which often sees these guys attacking.
In any case, back to, of course,
of where my work becomes a force.
Is it the act of me assembling
words, as they hatch, still slightly trembling?
Or do they come in plug-in packs?
I know that there are stacks and stacks.
And new ones grow by leaps and bounds
just waiting to convert to sounds.
As they arrive at my right wrist,
my flexors help to make a fist,
just loosely to permit the pen
to write a poem, once again.
But the beginning of adventure
starts now, completely free of censure
form any outside influence.
I am the Poet, no offence,
but, in a way, I’m an attorney
who supervises this great journey.
It is a flight to Mystery,
its destination kept from me.
And as my aero-plane just glides
I watch the world pass on both sides.
And not a thing escapes me thus,
I write them down – Another plus
is that it makes a lot of sense
that no one knows when this trip ends.
Nor what awaits me when we land,
so friends, I hope you understand,
I write to fabricate new pleasure
for me and others and I measure
the echo’s strength on its return.
If no one laughs, the mood is stern,
and neutral critics do not visit
I ask myself ‘Poet, what is it,
that clever minds did not enjoy
perhaps it was that I annoy
with poems of eternal length? ‘
A poem does not garner strength
by occupying lots of space,
yet I admit that in my case
I start a poem at the TOP
and cannot find a place to STOP.
Since, overall, I’m a good sport,
I promise you to keep this short.
Perhaps you ask me, with a grin
‘What is a poem’s origin? ‘