What kind of a man would
Lives in words, marking them down as religion
As if life were a thing
You could inscribe, encode, digitize
A woman cannot be turned into art
She’s creation itself
There’s no binary to her
She’s magic, her care and womb
Loathes what is not real
Maybe that is why women despise poets
They don’t have time to become
Attached to a dreamer, their unborn children
Urge them to find less wild men
And besides, what atonement is there
In a life of unread poems?
I think I used to wash myself in that river
And I used to travel those landscapes
Maybe I was too poor to really travel
Maybe I was too cowardly
To find a woman I could stare into
And know all the beauty of this planet
I am nearly resigned to growing old
Alone with poems, like some familiar signal
Of my squandered youth, of literature
Being used to be my illegitimate cover
My design to escape from reality.
This poem really touched my heart this morning. Still working on its meaning for me as a reader, but beautiful!
Glad to hear it Jacqui, that’s a lifetime of feeling I guess.