Another poem about poetry...

This poem is about itself
and how it cannot speak.
It might as well be Danish or
a dialect of ancient Greek.

Its words lift off like air balloons,
each basket all aflame
with revelation's flickering tongues
contained within each lettered frame.

Before these baubles reach the heart
they mean to kindle, each
one's lines snap, baskets drop,
the motive force behind their speech

is lost. The poet even now
while writing feels despair
deflate her. "Mediocre," hiss
infernal whispers in the air,

"expendable, inferior,"
and with a downward gust,
they snuff out truth flames fluttering
until there's nothing left but dust.

I wrote a poem.

I haven't written one since I started dating Edwin, which is more than a year. Therefore, the poem is about trying to write poetry and not being able to, and the process of self-doubt, etc.


I am going to write a poem.
Idon'thavethewisdomforitIdon't
thinkit'sgoingtobeanygoodandwhoamI
tobewritingthisanywaywhoamIanyway,
the words clunk at my feet.
Where is the wind to carry them
heartwards where they might be lodged
like guests or bent nails in a fencepost
to mark that I have made a difference like
the sunset, for now the sky is velvet
where it was fire and there is no going back?

I am a carbon-based organism, nucleotides dancing.
I am a soul blown through with Trinity.
I am a daughter, sister, wife, warming
house, husband, and children someday. I am
a teacher to open ears and tongues. I am a member
of this glorious squalor of a species that
in less than half a century birthed and killed
its Creator. I am, and I have the right to write a poem.

Yes, I have the right, as I stretch out my fist
to seize it like a Berkeley protester. Shall I
clasp it to my chest and say "Mine, mine, no
one shall take it from me!" as they do? I become
a shallow ditch in Palestine, where many years
ago a frightened man buried his gift. Take the earth
of my hole, mold it into a jar of clay that I might not
fester but break, spilling sweet myrrh at your feet.