Portrait of a Young Poet

A twenty one line riff on the process of becoming a poet.

Portrait of a Young Poet

 

Nobody could understand you--so you

made it official and began to write

poetry in your first year of high school.

 

In the beginning it was shadows, and

everything else not created by God.

You made a few friends--the tall skinny boy

 

who took refuge between his shoulders--the

girl dressed in black each Friday and once

slit her wrists then turned vegetarian.

 

But you discovered pentameter and

triads--a well-ordered page with numbers

and off beat examples for hurricanes.

 

Things seldom made sense, but once near the end

you managed to touch her, you leaped out from

the page and her hair burst on fire.  From

 

there you tore downward.  The mole and the worm,

the deposits of iron and copper

formed a bracelet between your lines. Someone

  

said “I get it,” and the audience turned

from its small talk and lattes. Someone said

“I know this,” and your hands became starlings.

 

© Mark MacDonald  2013