What the Poet Said

[jim turner]

I don’t understand you, you said,
and I replied, I cannot be understood.
I intend incomprehension.

But, here are wings. Stretch them, try them,
learn to fly, come now and fly with me.
Let us ignore those foul black vultures
(Yes, they will forever share the feast)
on the ground and learn the way of eagles,
screaming old desire when April calls.
Not true wings, you frown. No dragon lives.
True, Yet to the mouse the hawk breathes fire.
I wish to show you how to be at once
the striking hawk, the stricken mouse.

Have you forgotten how to weep?
Here, for those you lost, a palmful of tears.
Let me trickle them down your cheek
then kiss them away, with tenderness,
my offering to sadnesses, to grief
I cannot share. What? Must you ask more?
I can neither feel nor ease your pain,
brew no potion to calm the heart.
My hand holds a pen with watered ink,
no healing caduceus; sometimes a torch
to show a path, but will not make bright
again a light burned out upon despair
or hunger, nor strip man’s clothing from beasts,
unlike patient vultures, who feed before you die.

Words are not grapes, not grains of wheat;
a poem is not a loaf of bread.
Heed me, suffer me to re-acquaint you
with your eyes. Your ears. Your fingertips.
Soft lips, waiting to be touched.
On hot skin the cool surprise of rain.
Oranges and berries, spices on your tongue.
The lure, the exotic breathing of the sea, blown
from passionate, far off islands of your dreams.

Perhaps, perhaps they lie not all that far away
and we may find them when we learn to fly.
Doubtless, none was ever known as Avalon.
That does not say we may not seek it, you and I.

Jim 8/31/09 A work in progress, certainly not final. Suggestion will be as welcome as comment.

[Lao C Ryter]

Mr. Turner, your attempted intention for incomprehension has fallen short of me. Excellent write, Excellent write. I nap in your shadow, awaiting the next installment of "What the Poet Said".

[dadio]

An impressive poem, Jim.