R
Robert Harrison
Guest
Can one know the mind of the poet?
I think not.
For they themselves are unsure as to
Their true identity.
For they are the painter, the story teller,
The linguist, the historian, the dreamer and
Dream Catcher.
They give and they take away in words
That which is longed for, that which is
Sort after; the unobtainable.
And yet in a few brief words, worlds
Are created, dreams are dreamed and
Adventures begun.
Within the poet are all that we desire,
All that we hate, all that we love
And long for.
The poet is the unknown, and yet their
Words have a familiar sound, a familiar
Vision of that which was, that which is
And that which is to become.
They are the uninvited and the invited
Guest of the mind, of the heart of the soul.
Compelled to be read because of some
Faintly remembered line.
They are the lover for the faint hearted,
Who with trembling hand copies that which
Has already been written, and now desired
To be read.
The poet is in each of us, mysterious,
Unobtainable, unknowable.
And yet… some how…we feel that…….
I think not.
For they themselves are unsure as to
Their true identity.
For they are the painter, the story teller,
The linguist, the historian, the dreamer and
Dream Catcher.
They give and they take away in words
That which is longed for, that which is
Sort after; the unobtainable.
And yet in a few brief words, worlds
Are created, dreams are dreamed and
Adventures begun.
Within the poet are all that we desire,
All that we hate, all that we love
And long for.
The poet is the unknown, and yet their
Words have a familiar sound, a familiar
Vision of that which was, that which is
And that which is to become.
They are the uninvited and the invited
Guest of the mind, of the heart of the soul.
Compelled to be read because of some
Faintly remembered line.
They are the lover for the faint hearted,
Who with trembling hand copies that which
Has already been written, and now desired
To be read.
The poet is in each of us, mysterious,
Unobtainable, unknowable.
And yet… some how…we feel that…….
