Some fellows type words for lines for a poem,
wishing to express themselves in a special manner.
They have something to say about something or other.
They want to share what's in their minds, their souls.
And then there is the fellow who tries to make a poem
into a little world. A special atom to contain someone.
As days and nights fail, the big world is shadowed over.
He will go into words. He will grasp at spells of words
that tremble in the spaces where memories never formed.
He will let them flow wildly, more dream than meaning...
“In that scented field of mown barley
where blackbirds skitter through dull sky
and the way it must feel is brushstrokes
gone mad with dark Dutch colors!...
There! I will surely meet you there,
at dusk when this air begins to chill
and your untouched hand is warm.”
That strange fellow will live for a day, maybe into one night
inside each little world he has made with words into a poem.
Until he discovers with a sort of shock that his words
have become cages of dead time and very empty space.
He sits blinking, looking out at what has been cordoned.
He almost smiles at how gradually he became a prisoner.
Our fellow wonders if she read them.
Our fellow is glad she probably didn't.
Or maybe he's sad.
He shrugs a shrug of resignation.
Fires up an existential cigarette.
It's high time to use the key
of hard will to break dreams.
And if that key breaks off, pour
Leonard Cohen into the lock...
The best way out of captivity
is to swim in the ridiculous pain.