THOSE
OTHER FACES
Friends who claim they know me insist flashes and poems
I write are purely autobiographical:
somehow that sudden blast of wind or fallen tree or night’s
darkest sky reflect a part of my psyche those
other faces donned to hide the innermost me.
They scoff at my simple explanation: I write
the poem, but I am not the poem. The images
I borrow from nature are not vestments the lines
wear or camouflage to conceal the true me.
I write the poem with pick and axe, digging the earth
to reach the depths where life’s true meanings lie waiting.
The poem lies not in discovery but in search
of ways to light the wick of my candle life.
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The poems reveal things about us but are not always autobiographic or at least I hope not or I know myself not at all.
ReplyDeleteSome see the pronoun "I" and make the false assumption it's about the poet. Not always...
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