“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Saturday, June 8, 2019
Body
When composed
I have been most like a
lightly punctuated piece of prose.
I recently noticed this
when asked about tendencies
and putting ourselves into forms
or shapes.
When tasked
under grammatical conditions
we need not justify
why we do
to be understood through all the
various transitive verbiage.
Assembly was always required
of us
but never easy.
Only a certain grace found in
a harmless poem
could reflect lightly
a likeness of Others.
Our bodies of work
lie
in the white spaces
where there is room for the shadows
cast by the words beheld
and there are more than enough
glimpses of more
meaning
to be caught-
in mid-air-
afloat where we see
more than the sun setting in
(a day).
Image of writing by Joseph Carstairs, penned c. 1820 in [Public domain].
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