These Poems, She Said

Rain Dragon ~ Marti Somers
These poems, these poems,
these poems, she said, are poems
with no love in them. These are the poems of a man   
who would leave his wife and child because   
they made noise in his study. These are the poems   
of a man who would murder his mother to claim   
the inheritance. These are the poems of a man   
like Plato, she said, meaning something I did not   
comprehend but which nevertheless
offended me. These are the poems of a man
who would rather sleep with himself than with women,   
she said. These are the poems of a man
with eyes like a drawknife, with hands like a pickpocket’s   
hands, woven of water and logic
and hunger, with no strand of love in them. These   
poems are as heartless as birdsong, as unmeant   
as elm leaves, which if they love love only   
the wide blue sky and the air and the idea
of elm leaves. Self-love is an ending, she said,   
and not a beginning. Love means love
of the thing sung, not of the song or the singing.   
These poems, she said....
                                       You are, he said,
                That is not love, she said rightly.
~ by Robert Bringhurst
from The Beauty of the Weapons: Selected Poems 1972-1982


Gary's third pottery blog said...

love means love :)

goatman said...

Puts me in mind of a recently seen quote by Mark Twain: "It is discouraging to try to penetrate a mind like yours. You ought to get it out and dance on it. That would take some of the rigidity out of it."

Lee said...

The wonders of the workings of a mind.

goatman said...

Gee . . . I hope you know I meant Mr. Bringhurst.

red dirt girl said...

thanks for the clarification, goatman :)