Friday, April 27, 2012
at the margins
do you write the best poems
when you let sense fall through
like sand? does it form
its own shapes within
the abitrary confines
you have made?
do you link together two images
and dance on the thread between?
do you run roughshod over words
relying on imprints and intuition
as you skate perilously close
to the edges?
here at the margins of literature,
I'm not sure what there is to see.
or is it just another vanishing point
on the receding horizon of time?
they say we can only write
with the words our society has armed us.
does the poet ever travel
beyond the boundaries?
are questions moot? are answers folly?
is poetry still a beating, living thing
cupped in our hands, ready to wing away?