When lost love drives a poet’s pen,
Who could ever condescend?
Lost love drives us
To drink or poetry—
Anything to fill the hole,
To vent a raging heart
Penned in a solitary cage,
Its bars made blackly visible
When a beloved leaves!
If writing out
a string of words
In blood or ink
Helps a soul to bear the burden,
Helps to relieve pain’s potion,
Diluting it by sharing
With a sea of drinking minds
In some kind of sacred homeopathy,
Then worship such a poem!
If rhyme is all the order
A poet’s skeletal life
Can cling to, for awhile,
Then celebrate such rhyme!
If only pens could heal like wands!
More likely, therapeia comes
From sober visions in the mirror
Made of words that flow from wounds,
Parting the clouds that hide us
From our own predicament:
Then it’s time to get to work—
To face another sunrise,
See what Providence may bring.
wow Max.. you have put into words why most of the poets write, trully amazing poem! HBH
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Your pen writes with the ink of frustration, yes Max, doctors prescribe, but life only heals the wound.I found the innermost pain inside the words.Excellent!