Ode to Poets

Poets don't write. 
They bleed memories with ink or lead.
Revisit ghosts,
or open old caskets
for a quick glance 
to find a muse that inspires a verse. 

When in love,
they don't love.
They light a fire,
inhaling the fumes of passion to let it fill their lungs, 
just enough to take a last gasp of sanity.
Because a real writer knows 
a love poem is an 
absurd, illogical perfection.

The poet 
exhales a verse 
far more meaningful
than the
awes of a crowd,
or the approval of critics.
Their lines are the bluest part of a flame, 
A heat agonizing,
that can withstand the December cold.
Then April comes and the warmth dies.

In heart ache; they do not feel.
They lose their hearts.
They reflect on a past where they 
stepped on broken pieces of glass scattered on the floor.
Each step has its own story;
it doesn't matter which step hurts more: 
It's the same s**t.
But they hold their breaths and keep walking.
After a while, 
the pain is not excruciating.
It becomes numb
to the point they look down
not realizing, this whole time,
they've been walking on clouds.

Poets don't live;
they find a purpose:
To redefine love, to recall pain,
to thank nature, to reach the stars, to escape death. 
To create a colorful portrait from scratch.
To hear a melody from utter silence.
To dance in isolation.
To find a soul from a broken life.

In each poet,
In each verse, is a
A found purpose,
A lost heart,
A blue flame,
An illogical perfection,
A bleeding memory,
But
...we do not write.

Reviews

[Solar]

/The poet
exhales a verse/

And this whole poem breathes like a poet's sigh and the poetic insight into the nature of life and its emotions.

[Rachael Lea]

I feel too much to know where to start with this. The observations, the life in which a poet lives, the feelings we suffer from or live in glory with. The heartbreaking feeling of being stuck in a past, the wonder in which how to make a love sound so true and obtainable it is all there in this poem and more. Driven by our feelings, experiences, and so much more. You are right poets don't just write, with each piece written a part of their soul is given, a picture is painted, and though poets share their work they don't always do it for others, they often just do it for themselves, a way to remember those feelings, those memories created, those hopes and dreams, they do it as a way of living. Documenting a life through their eyes painting pictures, emotions, and so much more. I really enjoyed this. Before I do so I would like to ask your permission to share this poem with my friends. It is absolutely beautiful.

[J.A]

Thank you so much for your kind words. It feels good knowing I'm not the only one who feels like this sometimes. I should have joined this place a while ago. I don't mind you sharing this poem. Thank you for taking in my words.

[Rachael Lea]

You are very welcome you deserved them. I said that too when I joined. I was on poetry.com and I hated it and was complaining about it to one of my friends who is an English major and she mentioned this site to me. I instantly fell in love with it. I look forward to seeing what my friends say about this. I will let you know if you would like.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

i really like this and relate well...

we often seem to not live in the present, too busy writing about the past.

and do we really feel life? it seems to me that sometimes i don't really feel what happens...that part is bypassed and then i write about it with some distance. And yes, "those lines are the bluest part of a flame"

[J.A]

Yeah. I find myself always looking at the past and writing about it. Almost like a Gatsby syndrome. I should write more about the present, or just simply be more present but I guess that is something I'm personally working on. Thanks for the review.

[vili]

perfectly describes what poets are in a poem itself, beautiful

[Lily Sage]

Your poem is beautiful!
Thank you