Right
When you stop
being a poet
and start
being a poem
The World
hugs you
as if to say
"Welcome home"
Speed limits look like
a good idea:
All saying
"Enjoy this moment
as well as
the next"
Daylight dapples
across your hands
and face
and dogs barking
are
"yourself".
Just drifting off
as if
someone else
wore your
flesh.
And "to write"
means
"to be"
and
"to be"
means
"to love".
And all around
are nothing
but sweet
sounds
as words
and
they all
are true.
And it no longer
matters if
you seek nor understand.
Just existing is enough.
And it no longer matters
whose hands write
them, it,
or
us.
Just children's
voices
filling up
the emptiness
where joy
will soon reside.
"forlorn" "abstract"
"real" "imaginary"
it is all
chaff
swept away
by the words
of what you
once thought you were.
To sit to be
and smile with Grace
and awe
and wonder.
That is what it is
once the poet goes
and all that is left
is poem.
a poem.
All that is left
is a poem.
Scott Vanya is an Austin, TX area poet. He has been writing for a long time and favors sharing his work at open mics where he performs extemporaneously and plays guitar. His work has appeared in Walt’s Corner, Manna, Perigee, Chicago Literary Review, Mobius, Cosmic Trend, Pitchfork, Romantics Quarterly, Artisan, Pegasus, The Neovictorian, and The Blind Man's Rainbow. He is author of poetry collections, Free for an Unlimited Time, Conduit's of the Sublime, and CarryAway Seeds. He operates Open Mics Austin, a blogsite that archives various Austin area open mics and performances.
No comments:
Post a Comment