Dare I, as every poet knows
Disturb the universe which grows
In my own mind? The poet's said,
"There is a world inside my head,"
As every man is wont to tell.
Why does the poet create a hell
By bringing forth each thought he forms?
Unleashing cold, torrential storms
Of deep, deep thought which makes him look
Like a sage or bard forsook
For loftier things. Woe is the man
Who far too oft holds out his hand
And begs the reader feel his wounds,
Take upon himself the sounds
Of his soul, his heart, his words.
Piteous fool is he who hoards
Unto himself the knowledge of
All the world and has not love.
The world lives in healthy want
Of inner poetry, which haunts
The places where the mind is all.
The universe inside will fall
Lest a man let go the haze
Which poets thrust upon his gaze.
Poet, hold thyself at bay;
Let not the universe disturbed decay.
Common man, I'll hold you not
To worlds and thoughts best left forgot.
postscript
Today's poem was inspired by a poster for NaPoWriMo hanging in my American Lit classroom, while we were studying Walt Whitman. Ironic! There's a lot to be improved in this, but it isn't horrible. I think I'm getting warmed up, finally, after a poetry stagnation.