My Own Ars Poetica

Poetry may be a masterpiece of the heart torn apart,
Or the disconsolate word flow from a hole in the soul,
Or may be the sudden eruption of happy presumption;
She may be the lover’s cover in nearly numinous hover,
Or the sad ‘goodbye’ without really explaining why . . .
Poetry may come from the gut of a man caught in a rut,
Or the revelation of feelings long held in captivation,
Or may be exaltation of the contemplation of nature,
Or she may raise the hymn of otherwise silent praise;
Poetry may be sitting at a bar or wishing upon a star,
But above all, and with whatever else might be said,
She is testimony to the elasticity of the human psyche,
And in the end, poetry simply is . . .


Note: Inspired by an article written by Ken Craft kindly shared by Robert Okaji

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