Poets – a perspective

No, no!
A Poet never rests.
Where would the suffering be in that?
Feet up? No pen in hand, no racing ideas?
No tumult or anxiety? 
Or racking of the brains?

Poets have at least two brains.
One creative
One destructive.
Some have another thorough, 
Dead normal, brain.
If is is present, it is never used.

Cognitive complacency is rare.
The poet is opinionated
And withdrawn.
Forever moving
Like a mouth organ.
(Noisey harmonicas are often kissed). 

The Poet fits the face
And the gloved hand,
With bespoke lettering,
And a welworn desk.
The Poet is stark.
The Poet is best.

If a Poet coughs
The world is replete
And their words do not fail.
The theme is the thing.
The lover and the scheme
The reason and the being.

Life is in all their verse,
Be it blank, dank and irreverent.
The end, the beginning, the continuum.
Aloha, Omega  and Alpha.
Nothing is sacred or sacrilege.
Everything is better loved.

The tapping finger of love,
The sentence of oblivion.
For most Poets the jury is out
But the work never stops.
The craving to speak
Keeps the voice on the page.


© 2018  Christopher Thompson. All Rights Reserved. Written in England.

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