When I found the words,
that turned into poems
I was instructed to follow a career
that could earn a living,
something away from literature
or even journalism,
that would not come to defy
my relationship with God.
I was taught the languages
of mathematics and accounting
but the words were hunting
for a way of expression,
being stored up for years
even while my then wife,
saw my poetry
as just sentimental rubbish
and now that I am hammering out
the words, the meanings and sounds
I am again haunted by an elitist clique
for whom the position of the self
has become much higher
that the power of words,
who comprehends any able wordsmith
as a threatening menace
as they have to hammer away
at one verse for weeks and months,
rewriting it up to sixty times
to make a poem from it.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem