for there’s what you planned to write about, <br />and what you find yourself <br />writing about; perhaps <br />find yourself, while writing about.. <br /> <br />and there’s the poem itself; did you <br />consult it about what <br />its plans were? and when <br />it’s got itself written, <br />gone where it wanted to, <br />said what it wanted to say, <br />become what it wanted to become, <br />do you really know <br />what it’s finally and really about? <br /> <br />is it telling you more about <br />you than you knew yourself? <br />is the poem writing you? <br /> <br />did we, as with the unicorn, <br />feel the unspoken need for it, <br />and it became? <br /> <br />in some other world, <br />did two grains of dust change places? <br />did a new sort of light <br />shine on a new sort of place <br />in some new sort of time? <br /> <br />poems are like cats: <br />we think we own them; <br />they allow us certain rights, <br />but they own us. <br /> <br />this is a love poem <br />to a poem<br /><br />Michael Shepherd<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-love-poem-to-a-poem/
