I wonder often which side
Of the coin I am on,
The magnificent irony of God
For giving me words;
I am the lightless eyes that see
From the dark what is leftover
From a library of dreams that
Seem dimly lit longing to be.....
Each stanza I vainly write,
Or are they written already,
Insensible scribblings wondering
If I am the poem or the poet,
A book of sonnet infinite,
Inaccessible rhymed schemes
Prewrit as the lost manuscripts
Of Alexandria lost to fire,
I live among the metaphorical,
Gardens of verbs and fountains
Of nouns, the blind word speaks
All that is seen.
Librarian of my days,
The the form is free I believe,
The cosmic universe in which
I write call to me in words,
Who am I?
The poem or the poet,
The twilight of my days have
Come to wonder what's real,
The delectable world I watch,
The words feed into me,
I realise I am a poet
Living inside the poem.
Jan 12, 2017
Jan 12, 2017 at 3:16 PM UTC
I wonder often which side
Of the coin I am on,
The magnificent irony of God
For giving me words;
I am the lightless eyes that see
From the dark what is leftover
From a library of dreams that
Seem dimly lit longing to be.....
Each stanza I vainly write,
Or are they written already,
Insensible scribblings wondering
If I am the poem or the poet,
A book of sonnet infinite,
Inaccessible rhymed schemes
Prewrit as the lost manuscripts
Of Alexandria lost to fire,
I live among the metaphorical,
Gardens of verbs and fountains
Of nouns, the blind word speaks
All that is seen.
Librarian of my days,
The the form is free I believe,
The cosmic universe in which
I write call to me in words,
Who am I?
The poem or the poet,
The twilight of my days have
Come to wonder what's real,
The delectable world I watch,
The words feed into me,
I realise I am a poet
Living inside the poem.
