Poetry is not written,
poetry is found.
And there’s a secret
to finding poetry,
and I’ll tell it to you,
but only to you,
and the secret is this:
When it is October,
wait for the rain,
and when it rains,
sit
besides the rain,
and when you’ve sat,
search
for words and dreams
in the space between
the drops of rain,
and when you’ve searched,
look
for love and madness
in tiny streams that run
through the cobblestones,
and when you’ve looked,
see
hope and faith
in blurred reflections
of yellow-white lights
on the wet cement floors.
When you’ve done all this,
then, at last,
get up,
and walk into the rain,
hold out your tongue,
taste the world,
and let a little rain fall
on your paper too,
so that the ink runs
like tiny black streams
through paper-stones,
and the words blur
like the lights’ reflections,
and meaning melts,
like rainwater into mud,
and just so,
and only so,
Poetry is Found.
