A Poem of Declaration

04.05.07 09:57AM by Amos

Prior to this morning, I did not know that April is National Poetry Month. Now I do. I’m quite fond of writing poetry. If for no other reason than to release myself on paper. So that I may gaze upon the words of I and notice myself in action - for a moment. A reflecting pool of sorts, this is how I see my poetry.

I don’t claim to be a grand poet, or even a mediocre one, and questions of worth and dime always strike me as a game for fools. Does everything under the sun need purpose? Can a thing just be or must all creations be shackled with the sharp point of necessity? I’m of the mind that creation is its own reward. Create and indulge and be happy with its process. Be of joy with the simple act of tying your shoes or writing the humble letters with which you grew.

Do people call you crazy or say your art is poorly drawn and fashioned on dubious lines? Let them. They look with Economy and that gaze never saw the rainbow glint in sun’s evening death. Poets and artists can die hungry and cold and some will shake their heavy heads at a tale betrayed in vain. But a woman can spend her whole life sitting on a park bench, under a Maple of Years, doing nothing of any import except, perhaps, a poem or two, and the World rejoices and Life gives her a bow.

We, individuals and collectives, are not the arbiters of grace. Leave room for mystery to weave its charms. We do not know which cracks from which a flower may spring.

Declare yourself today.
Declare yourself alive -
and awake.
Or be a muttering fool
ripe with Plans and Strategies
crafted on the back of bark and ash.
Yo don't need a plan to live -
Free,
blowing gently over the contours
of a dream.

We only need to declare ourselves -
not intend -
what could be we'll leave for crippled politicians
and the rusted promise of our courts.
We only need declare ourselves.
Echoed to the Heavens.
We are Life.

And I am Free
and boundless.
Endless am I.
A light stretching through eternity.
No end,
no beginning,
no point of departure
or arrival.

We are All of It.
Because I declare it.
Now shout me down
Men of Industry.
I've heard it before.
I was there dear man,
every-time you killed a dream,
made of flesh and bone.

So shout me down
and tell me your lies.
I'll listen.
But know today
The World's cold tentacles
tickle my humor.

For I Am This,
full and ripe.
Bursting with a willingness
to be crazy and naked
dancing on the pin of a hope,
laughing
all
the
way
Home.

And I'll do it again.

written for the april poem-a-day every-once-in-a-while exercise

declaration + Economy + Fiction and Poetry + Industry + intention + National-Poetry-Month + poem + writing • Subscribe • Bookmark