|Posted on August 1, 2014 at 1:50 PM|
a great poet does not search
the great corners and valleys of the earth
to find the most beautiful peacock plume
which he will pluck and lovingly sharpen
to become a quill to write words.
he does not scour the highways
for the finest parchments
made of compressed dried bright flowers
and expensive grains
that will be the canvas upon which
he paints his words.
instead, he will take a burnt twig
on the edge of fire
and scribble those words
that come leaping like sparks from his heart.
he will find a dried palm frond
or some bit of dried discarded
leather, where he will put down his words
he will hide them.
a great poet does not investigate
and search the great literature of time
to choose the words that will evoke
the most sadness, or joy, or anxiety,
he uses the valve of acceptance
to open the reservoir of his heart
so that the words may flow
like beautiful ripples and frothy waves
tumbling into eternity.
the great poet never solicits
favor of his work, or even criticism
from those more learned. he
does not beg feedback; but rather,
those words, however common and plain,
will fall upon the fertile minds
of those whose heart-fields have been
plowed, and crushed, and pulverized
into rich root-food. there they will take root,
and invite that person to dive
derbeh august 1, 2014