A poem should not mean
But be.
--Archibald MacLeish

Oh, you wondered poets, you have crafted me—
Have made me into a variegated symphony,
Have clothed me in colors blue and green and gold,
Have writ me with your pen, have made me bold.
I am your beauty now; my every notion
Is one your words delicately set in motion.
I stand alongside your masterpieces, mystified
To be among the feastings of your eyes.
They dwarf me now, those words that once expressed
Your feelings; and now me have possessed
In their deliberate beauties. I know not how
I became a part of your written vows.
I am your poem, a mastery yet unmastered;
You make me lovely even in my disasters.
I’m made to inspire, just as your ethereal words
Inspire me, make me less absurd,
Acknowledge me, and make me look alive.
It is the very point at which I strive—

To make my wasteland a pretty how town,
To make my carrion a song of love.
And make one soul’s lostness found
And seat them safely in an olive grove.
Through ages and ages our words to advance
And come alongside them in our ageless dance.

No comments: