Reason doesn´t invent or write a poem,
you can't will a poem to the page;
You can’t under bedcovers decide
tomorrow you’ll compose something great.
While creating, inspiration is fading,
then something mysterious, unknown,
gives a quick nudge to the struggling poet,
and that stimulus comes from within,
but final results will likely be less powerful
than the supernova-like original idea.
Truth and beauty are the poet’s lasting province,
what exists for all to see and how we express it.
The “auditors,” are moved by what they hear
but have no idea how or why it’s happening.
Knowledge, power and pleasure are released
from the poet’s pen and the mind takes over,
arranging them according to rhythm and order.
Where divinity is residing somewhere in man
poetry seeks it out and redeems it from rust.
There is no logic, poetry is aslant mind’s powers,
evanescent, the thoughts seeking full expression
rise with joy, pleasure and anticipation, then fall.