The Poet

Can one know the mind of the poet?

I think not.For they themselves are unsure as to their true identity.

They are the painter, the story teller,the linguist, the historian,

the dreamer and dream catcher. They give and they take away in words

that which is longed for, that which is sought after: the unobtainable.

And yet in a few brief words, worlds are created, dreams are dreamed

and adventures begun. Within the poet are all that we desire,

all that we hate and all that we remember and long for again.

The poet is the unknown, and yet their words have a familiar sound,

a familiar vision of that which was, that which is and that which is

to become. They are the uninvited and the invited guest of the mind,

of the heart and soul. Compelled to be read because of some faintly

remembered line. They are the lover of the faint hearted,

who with trembling hand copies that which has already been written,

now desiring them to be read. The poet is in each of us, mysterious,

unobtainable,unknowable, yet…some how…somewhere…we feel that…


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