On Li-Young Lee And Poetry As The Dying Breath Medium Poem by J. E. Carpenter

I am here and I am silent.
And wondering if true
that poets write about love
so that they can write about death

And is each exhale death?
Do people die on inhales?
And why is the wise child sad?
And why when I decided to be happy.
I could not write poetry.

I could write poetry.
I did not write poetry.

He hesitates to raise his voice.
He raises the mic instead.
He has made his life in thinking
I have made mine in avoiding it

Look how he stands awkwardly on stage
He did not expect by being direct that he would come to this
I even wonder if he wanted this fame, renown, people seeking his autograph
On his words

And I’d pay to see him
Because I am not strong
My weakness begs me sit silent
in a crowd and watch as the universe
stirs others to song.