“Art thou not of
the dreamer tribe?”
John Keats, The Fall of Hyperion
At their best, poets can see into the
heart of a beggar,
his extended hand withered and bare like a sycamore branch in fall.
They can define the wherewithal of hookers
as they go through the motions, painted and dressed to the oblivious nines.
Seers and prophets, they build a kingdom
that cannot be toppled by the Tower of Babel’s foreign syntax.
Their words flow from Hippocrene's pure
and fathomless spring,
pens poised eternally above blank parchment, ready to bleed new wine.
They know whether Schrödinger’s cat is
alive or dead,
particle and wave always dancing at reality’s elusive cotillion.
How vast and ingenious is the universe
that the poet dreams,
where lovers always pirouette back to promissory schemes,
to the subatomic spin that entangles trivial
and lofty things.
Their lines of verse run across pages to create a newfound scripture
so holy and divine, rooted in the earth
yet also knowing
the glory of rhyme and reason, of untethered feathered wings
and the nightingale that forever in the dark our collective poetry sings.