A Kazakh in the Prairies

Perspectives of the heart

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A good poet carries the stain of Varuna,

Of the one who ran away from the contest.

Not because the poet sings and doesn't do,

No nothing so simple as that. It is more.

As a healer of the injuries of the soul's loves,

The poet is adored as a bearer of life,

But not the pain that comes from pleasure

Where love breaks the bud to blossom as flower.

No not so simple as that. It is the act of rape,

No not the rape of a woman but a virgin still,

Like a Lawrence in the sands of the desert,

Or the Greeks at the hands of the Ottoman.

The poet speaks of its justification sweetly,

But what is more than a poet lives with us,

He made it legal in the highest law of the land,

Then he dropped his pants and leaned over.

What will the poet sing of the healing this made?

Nothing, but to see poetry in motion in sphincters,

Made aware by pain of the Knights of the orchids

Where such a farm is in one's own backyard.

Hurrah, to these poets of the flesh, their true,

Causes the first poet to return from whence he ran,

And for him to ask again the questions, he didn't

Who are these people with heart? Are these angels?

Reviews

[Chris]

A great picture... well chosen words that suit the flow of the thoughts.

You touched the yester-days.