Poetry is not about words. <br />Poetry flows <br />from experiences that hover beyond words, <br />a shining memory sounding muffled <br />hidden behind a familiar door. <br /> <br />The words of a poem <br />are the funeral of my old father, <br />magnificent, feisty and watchful, <br />available to the last <br />through indefinable gestures <br />and a shining silence <br />existent somewhere else now <br />as poetry is, the real poem, <br />not the heavy coffin of the print. <br /> <br />Poetry pines for it’s lost world, <br />its hidden home, <br />like a swan still singing on a plate. <br /> <br />It is homesick, alone, away <br />from its chosen canyons and <br />mountain trees around the lake, <br />vibrant with colour <br />in memories that glow <br />for a lifetime. <br /> <br />You know, as I do, poetry is not words, <br />but is a royal personage, <br />my father on his deathbed.<br /><br />Ian Trousdell<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/creativity-like-my-father-on-his-deathbed/
