Being a Poet
There is something about being a poet that is self-defining. When I consider an idea or a random thought invades my consciousness it often seems best expressed in poetry. Perhaps that is why, although I have tried prose it doesn't seem to work well for me. There is something about trying to beak a thing down to its core and display it in crisp, succinct, moving ways.
An example is the poem that follows. I read a post on facebook that started me thinking about how personality and relationships evolve. The cycle of inventing and discovering the self. This is what I came up with.
Love is a scalpel,
It takes grafts from the id
to increase the definition of the ego.
Who am I?
Mate, Lover of culture, best friend . . .
graft the identity on my soul.
if the graft didn't take -- a bleeding wound,
now build the scar.
Each moment redefine,
breaking from my chrysalis
I must slowly spread wings and dry.