I don’t always write poetry, but when I do…I have no idea if it’s any good. Stay metaphorical, my friends.
A Poem on the Radio
On the radio the poem of an author I cannot remember is spoken,
But biographical minutiae quickly follow and allegory is broken.
They shatter meaning, pluck the poem from my hands and ground it in the drudgery of historicity,
where once I found the universal, the magical, synchronicity.
For a fleeting moment, a beautiful instant, the poem was mine; me in it and it in me,
but explanation infringes and fills the void so that nothing else can be.
Suddenly, insight is complete, imagination pushed aside,
Private property cut out from the communal, the gift denied.
There is a reason the poet—like God—hides.