Poets have no tools, never <br />No tangible tools that is to say <br />Some people even call them fools <br />Poets have a different worldview <br />Built on emotions, sensations, lacerations <br />Splinters of pain <br />And all that the heart holds to be true. <br /> <br />Poets have no right way or wrong way <br />(Its true that they often lose their way anyway) : <br />Poetry has always been difficult to define <br />Scrambled thoughts, scrambled lines <br />That is to say <br />Perfect lines, perfect rhymes <br />Clockwork metric thoughts and thou and thine <br />Stanzas, couplets and all the rest of it <br />My emotions flew jagged against the sky <br />My thoughts often threatened to run away <br />Like me; I speak about pain and despair <br />People who are going to die <br />Corpus callosum, existence ad infinitum <br />Transient joy, the rainbow arching <br />Spectral armies marching <br />Tramping, tramping down history's worn-out lanes <br />And the lines in a stranger's face <br />His apparent despair, his evident pain <br />Jerk me from those absolute, imperfect rhymes <br />I am myself corpus callosum-like again.<br /><br />Rani Turton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/poets-11/
