A Poetic History

When I was five I found Ash Wednesday -
And tearing out the third page left it melting in my
Mouth. That was my first experience
Of poetry- consuming the word, quite literally.

The second was, religiously- turning the words
In my mind, at ten, a Haiku- a syllable too long
But still some chords of my harmonized- in
An accord, like a freeing up of the
Light in my soul.

How did it unfold? How did it unfold since then?
A million dawns of beauty- that sunset, and
The teeming of the sea- and the petrichor
Lent to me. Many held to be nothing, many
Unseen- never converted into any poetry
The heart holding many things wordlessly
And many without gratitude and yet
Sometimes- a blazing of an insight-
Almost like the blaze of the meteor
That lent the black obelisk of Kabbah
Has flamed before me.

And never quite being able to collect
Together it all- each poem holds its
Own teeming essence- that ever present
Present beauty which never seems
To be be- freed enough from the bonds
Of words, or free enough to be an
Expression of what I see- and so
Incomplete- but never used up
My soul must teem again- in another
Poem, to try to free itself.