Naked

A poem is an open invitation to look into the poet's soul.  It is the doorway to a world where suffering or happiness cannot be seen by the bare eye, it must be read by the heart.

Many years ago, a friend asked me why I never submit my poems for publication. 

I was touched.  Friendship, indeed, like love, makes people see things through rose tinted glasses.  Although a couple or so of my so-called poems have wormed their way to some very obscure publications, I am under no illusion that I can capture things as beautifully and as vividly as those poets and writers I admire.

I smiled at my friend and told him that more than my dread of getting ridiculed by those who would waste their time in reading my poem, I am even more afraid of standing naked and powerless in front of everyone.  I watched him open his mouth.

What holds a poem together is more than the black or blue or red ink and the paper it's written on–  these items that allow it to be seen.  There is so much more to a poem than these, and these intangibles or invisibles unfortunately escape most peoples' perceptions.   The poet's essence, his blood, his thoughts, his ambitions– all of these serve as the mortar that gives courage to these mere words, and make phrases stand proud.

This work, this somewhat absurd mass of words go through the most sublime and more often than not, hellish emotions before they are formed, grouped in order or in random to the poets satisfaction.  The poet is the blacksmith, and the poem is his sword.

When a poet writes, every word he forms is a knife that can wound him.  It is an exercise in self-flagellation where the poet vigourously thrusts the knife he made to other peoples' unwashed hands, asking them to clasp it tightly, positions himself within striking distance, and then beg them to "please, cut  me". 

That, is the tragic circumstance of a poem.