BACKPACK
The poet trudges,
burdened, bent,
back and forth,
impercipient.
With words that are useless,
that have only weight,
he paces a sameness
in blindered grim gait.
Metaphors, similes,
a crisp interjection,
mere clamorous tonnage,
trash and abjection.
The longer he carries
that lexicon load
the more likely he is
to slowly implode.
The vulture, despair,
the scavenging bird,
starts to descend,
but then comes the word!
The exact, the precise,
in meaning and sound,
arises from somewhere
in mind’s underground!
The foot-weary poet
with jubilant pen
turns face to the wind
to do it again.
And so do we begin National Poetry Month, dear reader, my annual head-scratching of what makes a poem or a poet.
I do not believe that rhyme makes a poem. I try to work in rhyme for two reasons: 1) it narrows my choice of words, a good discipline for a yackety daughter of Eire, and 2) it gives me the giggles, a good tonic.
But poetry does not depend on rhyme; it depends on something else. I can’t define it.
As happens so often, Bill, our intrepid photographer, has captured an image with wonderful layers of meaning. Thanks again, Bill!