Poetry is not words… <br />Not page nor pen. <br />Take this out and you will see. <br />What is poetry then? <br /> <br />What could it possibly be <br />If you limit this use of expression. <br />Isn’t this how poetry sings? <br /> <br />With words? Small words, long words— <br />Simple words. Light words. <br />Words that sing to the gut <br />And to the ear. <br />And this isn’t how poetry breathes? <br /> <br />I don’t believe so. I don’t believe it is. <br />Poetry is the break, the beat, <br />The human machine, <br />The red scarf, <br />The marble gumdrop. <br />The silent dog and singing leaves. <br /> <br />Poetry is sounds, not words <br />In which we hear. Poetry <br />Is the maze of Keats <br />And Whitman, Komunyakaa. <br /> <br />Poetry is a confession… <br /> <br />A rope to tie these minds <br />Firmly onto a metal seat and catechize <br />Until they weep. To whip <br />A confession out ourselves. <br />This is poetry. <br /> <br />Poetry is all water and air, <br />Stars in dirt and dirt in stars. <br />Poetry is their voice, <br />Poetry is our own voice. <br />Poetry is this invisible touch <br />Tickling and scraping our bones, <br />Our bones which words could never <br />Rainbow <br />A reach.<br /><br />Masiela Lusha<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-song-of-poetry/
