I’m tired of poetry.
Or at least tired of what poetry
has become for me.
Poetry is a ritual.
My words are the tools
of this ritual.
With my words
I trace a chalk circle
on the cool stone floor.
With my words
I light the candles
at the four quarters
and fill the room
with wisps of burning incense.
With my words
I summon spirits out of thin air
spirits of passion and power
creatures of black fire and silver smoke.
I stand in the center of my circle
and these spirits put on quite a show
crackling and howling
churning and writhing
straining at the invisible chains
of the words that bind them.
But sooner or later
the poem ends
and the fire goes out
and the smoke clears
and only the cold stone remains.
I want more out of poetry.
Poetry shouldn’t be a parlor trick
a way of entertaining people
by conjuring my passion and power
in the safety of a chalk circle
for the benefit of an audience.
Poetry shouldn’t be a safety valve
to release my steam
so that nobody gets burned
between readings.
I want real poetry
the poetry of the gods
the power to summon spirits
that don’t go away
at the end of a reading.
Real poetry is alive.
Real poetry is dangerous.
Real poetry is a feral hound
that chases you down
and tears you limb from limb
just to hear you scream.
Sometimes
my poetry is real
but sometimes
the words are a little too clever
a little too safe
like a dog on a leash
whose barking and chomping
makes your heart skip a beat
until you notice
that he can’t reach you.
I want to cut the leash.
I want to let the dog run wild.
I want to be eaten alive by poetry.
The next time I’m walking
among the blossoming trees
full of pink and white and purple flowers
and the wind is blowing in my hair
and the petals are raining down on me
and the grass is greener than green
and the sky is so blue
I gasp at the sight of it
the next time I find myself there
I want to fall on my knees in awe
at the glory of life
instead of just talking about
how I wanted to.
The next time I talk to a woman
and I feel my pulse quicken
at the sight of her brilliant eyes
her sudden smile
the wind in her hair
the words on her lips
the music of her voice
played by a heart
that no words can describe
I want to hold her hands
and say her name
and sing her praises
and kiss every part of her
and fall to my knees
in worship of her
instead of just talking about
how I wanted to.
This is my desire
my mission, my quest
to live my poetry
real poetry
every moment of every day
instead of dusting it off
every week or two
and putting it back in a box
at the end of the night.
And so I swear
on all I hold holy
to give myself to this poetry
in the spirit of the Green Man
in the spirit of Dionysos Eleutherios
even if the world forsakes me
even if my passion drives me mad
even if I’m torn limb from limb
by the feral hounds
of my poetry.
And so I swear
on all I hold holy
to give myself to this poetry
to let my heart pound
to let my voice rise
to let my flesh
and my heart
run free.