The Poem, The Poet And The Reader
A diary, an overstatement, even lie;
A searching sleuth; discovered truth;
A momentary passing-by;
A life in sixty some odd lines;
And chance to speak in secret signs,
Showing daring layers ingrown,
Using language that you own.
A chance to feel what you’ve not lived,
Flailing in –ner -finity.
A poem.
For writer a way home;
For reader, leader;
An instructor and conductor
From the darkness into light,
And the chance to know one may be right:
A dark night like my own!
For poet,
Chance to play the fool around
Ridiculous-meticulous;
Poem, poem on the paper,
Who’s the most important shaper
Of the culture?
You are sage:
Keeper of the holy page.
Who’s the culture’s biggest schnook?
You who never read a book
Or fill your nib.
The tribal scribe is always golden;
And in times of culture’s ebb,
The poet has a foothold:
Reflections on the culture’s texture.
Poet, with his storm,
Is digit
Underlying God and form.
Lucky he who writes, who reads.
Fulfilling the most tender needs.
Om, ok, and then
Amen again.
©
The Poem, The Poet And The Reader 96.7.23Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative;
Arlene Corwin
