Ours, PoeticaNovember 10, 2005
Imagine, were it possible to see
a world where every object was expressed
as reference to another, every tree
a metaphor, and every one addressed
by “rose” or “poem” or “ancient crooked man”.
If poetry existed as a state
of being, we could live it rather than
depend upon the poet to create
a world of imagery and fertile thought.
What would we call this world of which we dream?
Poetica her name and yet would not
her very same existence make it seem
that Poetry itself would be a sham?
A feeble, mild attempt to call to mind
a state of grace, perfection in the land,
then every single poet could remind
his reader that the work is more than metrical.
You find your own expressed as “ours, Poetica.”
For the next Poetry Carnival.