The poems on the printed page <br />Began as whispers in the mind <br />But now attentively they stand <br />Neat artefacts in black and white <br />Catalogued and classified, <br />Crisp and neat, solidified. <br />Pick them up and put them down, <br />Let them fall upon the floor, <br />Scatter them upon the table, <br />Rattle them like poker dice <br />But have a care for they are loaded, <br />Less innocent than they might seem. <br />Beware their false solidity <br />And gaze not on them overlong <br />Nor let them rest upon your tongue <br />For poems melt in people's mouths <br />And warmed by touch or lingering glance <br />May be absorbed like tongues of flame <br />Within the labyrinthine brain <br />Wherein by alchemy transformed <br />The man of careful calculation <br />Becomes the shaman wild and strange <br />Under the moon and the cold night stars. <br /> <br /><br />Pete Crowther<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/whispers-in-the-mind/
