from the top of love's peaks
flying off into happy clouds
go the poets of one extreme
cast into the bowels of sadness
abandoned, left cold, rejected,
ready to end their pity...
go the other half
what would poetry sound like
from the middle?
the sound of stillness, smiling,
accepting, being, breathing,
non attachment, painless
verbs not conjugated,
sentences without punctuation
the perfection of seeing all
as it is, without the caffeine,
sugar free, flat white,
low octane, no adrenaline,
without supplemental vitamins
poetry without a pencil
just paper
and light
until the paper blows away
and what if there is no thinker
to create
it
the non-thinking thinker
poetically dies off
leaving what?
A thoughtful poem and a great critique on how and what poets are contributing and the net value additions they are making to the society they are supposed to enrich, improve and enlighten. Thanks, dear poet.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
you love extreme! your poems are like sitting on a high rock! the perfection of seeing all as it is,