The Poet Poem by Robert Harrison

Can one know the mind of the poet?
I think not. For they themselves are unsure
as to their true identity.
They are the painter, the story teller, the linguist,
the historian, the dreamer and dream catcher.
They give and they take away in words
that which is longed for, that which is
sought after; the unobtainable.
And yet in a few brief words, worlds are
created, dreams are dreamed and adventures
begun.
Within the poet are all that we desire,
all that we hate and all that we remember and
long for again.
The poet is the unknown, and yet their
words have a familiar sound, a familiar
vision of that which was, that which is
and that which is to become.
They are the uninvited and the invited guest of
the mind, of the heart and soul.
Compelled to be read because of some faintly
remembered line.
They are the lover of the faint hearted, who with
trembling hand copies that which has already been
written, now desiring them to be read on their behalf.
The poet is in each of us, mysterious, unknowable,
yet…some how we feel that…