The Poem That Is Not Written Waits For Its Words Poem by Shalom Freedman

The Poem That Is Not Written Waits For Its Words



The poem that is not written waits for its words
It does not know if they will ever exist
But in the waiting it feels suddenly as if it might be real
And hears itself softly calling to itself as if it were a love song
Far away nights and distances and darknesses other dreams suggest themselves to it
But it is its own form of loneliness
And the words it has waited for come to it as if they were only one single lost particular dream
Whose light and depth and shape have a vision of truth in them
No literature has yet seen-

The world goes on
Billions of words are written
Poems appear anywhere and elsewhere and for others
And in this distance in this loneliness in this hereness
These words
Only these words
Are this poem
Which is only this poem
And nothing which means greatness beyond itself-

It is a long time to wonder and live
A long time to write and not be understood
And the poem itself turning on its own pauses
Knows that it too mortal as dust
Will never be what it might have been
When at its outset
It might have been what it should have been.
Beautiful as life itself in all its best radiance.

Thursday, March 13, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: poetry
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Shalom Freedman

Shalom Freedman

Troy New York
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