All around the world, <br />poems are talking among themselves <br />when the books are shut, <br />when the computers are switched off, <br />when old-fashioned poets put down <br />chewed pencils, sucked ballpens, <br />lips a little stained with the flavour <br />of ink that’s washable or permanent; <br /> <br />poems talking among themselves <br />in that language that poems understand, <br />that poets seek to write; <br />poems murmuring, complaining, <br />sometimes shouting desperately, <br /> <br />who are these people who <br />have dared to speak our language? What <br />is their right and reason? When <br />did they arise? Where <br />did they get their ideas? Why <br />do they even try? How <br />do they hope to improve on this? What <br />is a poet, anyway? <br /> <br />The tumult of their languages, <br />the babel of upraised voices <br />speaking, though, with that unutterable <br />beauty of that sound which can really act, <br />can change the world of change, <br />can touch the heart for lifetimes, <br />melts a heart of stone, <br />brings tears to eyes needful of tears, <br />opens clouds to blue sky and to sunlight, <br />watches angels as they ascend and descend, <br />speaks of, speaks, <br />the unknown, formless, eternal, ever present – <br /> <br />the tumult dies down; in the <br />silence and the stillness, <br />only the pure sound of sound itself; and <br /> <br />in that sound the absolution: <br />forgive them, O Muse of Poetry: <br />they know not what they do.. <br />yet in their hearts, they know <br />what must be said. <br /> <br />The pain, exquisite; <br />found worthy; loved.<br /><br />Michael Shepherd<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/this-one-for-hanque-with-thanks/
