The Poet Poem by Eric Cockrell

The Poet



who is the poet then?
the master of words,
phrases, rhymes, and symbols...

or the one who wipes the ass
of the old man in the nursing home,
whose family does not come anymore.

or the young gay teacher
in the projects, walking the thin line
between the hatred of gangs, and hope.

or the small time farmer
who planted one last crop,
knowing that the bank was coming
to take it all away.

or the soldier in Iraq,
who stops to help a child up,
and sees his own children miles away;
cant speak, and cant breathe.

or the young man in prison
for something that he did;
just trying to survive, day to day,
and to find a new way.

or the young woman who was raped,
being humiliated on the witness stand,
and they call it justice!

or the man left standing
on the brink of losing it all...
the eyes of his family haunting him;
with nowhere to turn,
and no one to ask for help,
and a gun in his hand!

if poetry then is written
by the hand of God....
the hands are human!

COMMENTS OF THE POEM
James Casey 07 September 2011

Eric, The nail has been hit on the head again good write

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Terence George Craddock 06 September 2011

A poem written with the weave of universal themes, with the touch of love for all humanity. A poem that embraces the courage of lives lived in the face of adversity and bigotry, while struggling to do what is right and often not what is the easiest or best option for ourselves. The theme of the poet is an intriguing theme that I also have contemplated often. This is an extract from 'True Poet' that I wrote in June 1991 in Istanbul Turkey, that I know you will understand Eric. For my friend Eric who writes the themes society needs so well. 'She asked me ‘What is a true poet? I said ‘Someone who lives for poetry.’ Someone who has no choice but to write evermore eternal poetry. Someone who turns happiness into moments of exquisite poetic joy. Someone who turns tragedy into intensified heightened transcendent expression. Someone who watches a leaf fall from rustic red golden autumn tree; and has no choice but to fall gliding, into rhythm of perpetual cyclic life.’ She asked me if you could be a poet and not write a single poem. I paused for a moment of contemplation then Poetry said, ‘Your whole life could be but a single poem; the entire course of a whole life lived, could be but a single impassioned poem.’'

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