….poetry has broad shoulders; stands square
on two feet ready to work; has open arms and big meaty hands,
and will gladly hold you in the embrace of kindness.
poetry slouches in the corner chair during the party,
ambivalent to being noticed or not being noticed.
poetry is the latino on the bus, his intricately braided hair
hanging over the back of the seat, who you wanted to photograph;
but asking meant making poetry self-aware
and losing the moment. poetry was both the man and moment. later,
much later, poetry showed up in a woman’s smile: the woman,
walking toward you on a downtown street, all motion of
hair and hips, breasts and skirt hem, acknowledging in your stare,
what she already understands is her beautiful presence.
poetry is self-aware through the eyes of it’s object.
poetry is the bright blue of awareness; poetry is
black slate of mystery through which travel the lumens,
long extinguished stars only now reaching your questioning eyes;
poetry never was, never will be.
poetry is in the art of an angel on her knees in grief
holding your star which fell from the sky waiting for you;
poetry says act now, this may be a limited time offer.
poetry is the question in God’s mind, “Who Am I?” And Poetry told
Gustavo Adolfo Béquer to answer, and he wrote:
“¿Qué es poesía? dices mientras claves
en mi pupila tu pupila azul.
¡Qué es poesía! ¿Y tú me lo preguntas?
you are poetry.
Re-upping this in honor of poetry month.