The Birth Of Poem Poem by merry(merrypens) virgo

the birth of a poem

you know when a poem is overdue
when the concepts slip through
shaded revenues during the moments
snared in blue nights, during the very few
minutes before light makes morning break
as dreams undo perfumed pillowcases
and shadows drift away
when you awaken.

it is then when the poem comes -
it is then when a stanza breaks
and heartbeat drums take over -
it is then when your lover becomes words,

when absurdities clear, when all held dear
erupts from the fragments, when
your verse is steered closer to now,
nearer to a vow spoken to honor earth,
nearer to the birthright of a soul immersed
in time nursed by yet unspoken dangled vagaries
which plague the very nature of the rental space
we all take up.

you know when a poem is long overdue
when the stuff, the residue, the ash,
the cashed-in vastness you so very much want to state
is served up on a plate you can't quite hold,
when the vision of a stolen mission is blasted
from a stun gun into new space,
when you cannot help but trace your fingertips along
the inside out song you only imagined being written –

when the lyric is projected as syllable inflections
and without intention, without plan, without being able
to stabilize colors or spans of time, or cries or wishes
or vistas or mists which frequent dreams,
(since none of it is what it ever seems) –
it is then when the poem comes.

And so you capture it, you trap it,
you tap it out to grab the vagrancy of truth
and make it known that it is caught now
in a stanza or an image permanently recorded,
stored on particle linen with the nub of a pen
or in an electronic file to prove you soothed
the ruse by witness.

a poem is born when morning grievances
cease to mourn, when spirit leaves turn up
to catch the vast reign of plain thought —

when you've fought and won the light,
caught a rainbow phrase
and the reader hears through your sight,
feels your breath upon their ears,
and the touch of lines becomes
a dear treasure, the measure measured
by the presence the word implies

the birth of a poem is a morning glory
opened to a hummingbird story sucking life from
the stamen, no matter how vile the pistol, no matter
how difficult to retrieve the memory of fertilization.

the birth of a poem
needs no excuse or explanation.
it is the celebration of the
opening of the legs of the universe –
letting out life.

note: This is not my work
I just revived this.... :))