Only a poet understands the pickle his or her life has become. We are observers, scrutineers, truth seekers and bound within the silken threads of language. Our thought processes are unlike others and often at arms-length, virtually unattainable as far as human logic goes. Often we can be pariahs, self-imposed outcasts from a society who for the most part have been disenfranchised from much artistic and creative endeavour.
The sentient mind these days is more concerned with mortgage payments and shiny cars. Sad, but I digress. Who we are and what we are is important, not just outwardly but spiritually, as we in our expression, hold onto what in essence we are: spiritual beings in learning and growth. Poetry, for all its loss in value from society’s perspective, is holding onto what we are in potential, and that is beyond important.
This poem is just an affirmation of what I believe to be our place and importance in the stream of creative thought. Hope you enjoy it.
Tony DeLorger © 2019
I am but a word-smith,
a being attuned to language,
an angel, beast and lunatic,
consumed by expression
and the outpouring of all I am
upon a blank page.
Most people do not understand,
cannot see my need,
and so lunatic most taken as truth,
the very seed from which I grow,
yet I am of intention too,
an open book in sharing.
My eyes may see no more,
my heart may know not more,
but my pens sees more than both,
and in that hope, I remain,
being true to name and pen, my troth.
The bard is a messenger,
no pious soothsayer or leader,
simply a conduit for truth and beauty
an open book in continuity
of what life, through experience, offers.
No adoration or notoriety needed,
just the reading and perhaps truth heeded,
is all the messenger can expect,
after all, we are reflections alone
of possibility, what may be sewn into being.
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