With Which Grains Does the Man Today Struggle?

January 13th, 2019

I write poems for the man who does not know, for the woman who does not know that
each linked line of words drawn from the bowels of thought,
each meaning masticated by mind and ruminated there,
in short; each sentence spoken, each paragraph pronounced is poetry:
the lines never written down but in the book of life do say as much (may be more) than those that are,
that whatever feeble meaning may emerge from my troubled mind, the words,
each word which I only hear in passing but which come from wells, reservoirs of silence —
these too — these first — with the static sounds of stones in current — are poems whose depth is too immeasurable to be set in rhyme or meter.
Read my poems only if you cannot hear the stones: that you might train your ear
and be ware: each word that’s writ has significance the same as any scripture;
each noun pronounced holds the same sway as any prophecy:
take care to see you utter only truth, and if in haste misspeech becomes unleashed upon the world between the lips to which you claim the lease:
in silence contemplate, your heart bring humble to the feet of understanding:
there find the antidote which may or may not be spoken, and wait to cast the spell until the deepest reaches of your heart groan it forth without your knowing.
This is the way to speak: a little knowing corrupts the poem;
a fuller knowing keeps it going until it joins the song which the morning stars began:
its loss is preservation.
Were men like ants these grains of sand would be all we ever knew;
but by the word which has come to us and through the flesh made man,
we see an end — we form a future of our choosing —
we must take care to know the words with which we weave:
like leaves they will decay and like as to detritus
they will form tomorrows from today