With Specimens of Song

– Where Hart Crane once jumped


You love the invisible
You write IT everyday
You claim your little notes
Further the language of the Day

With ample letters, of your love
To witness the light which delights
The air is clear and transparent
Where your voice speaks like a melody

Your love is for the invisible
With incorporeal pillows vain
Your sunrise is a spiritual event
Somewhere inside your little brain

Your love, it is for the invisible
A dreamer interrupting his own ground
You write journals for eternity
God bless your suddeness
that which you call dear poetry.


4 thoughts on “With Specimens of Song

    • yes writer’s often are forced to write to sell, while poets know they will toil in obscurity and hence are free to write to their future selves…(i.e. some imaginary audience called Eternity)

      • That is such a profound way to think about writing and poetry 🙂
        Although I interpreted it as the poetry (or writing) surviving for eternity long after we have all gone. I guess some romantic notion that our writing will outlive all of us as testaments to our lives (or witness). I love how others poetry can be observed in different ways.

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