P is not for Pasta but for Poetry
Because words can feed the soul more than bread.
What’s a poet?
I don’t know,
Close your book now
You can go.
Go where, you may ask?
Go be free.
Go grow up a man
And come back
Like the wind through the trees,
Like lightning across the firmament,
Come back with poetry.
Being a man is being free.
Speaking man’s tongue
Is poetry.
Poetry is the shock,
The electroshock of letters
Into a washbowl of words.
The nugget of gold,
Buried in the prosaic sludge
Of pre-washed meanings.
You look straight,
You see a red brick.
You look edgewise,
You can see an ant’s home:
A full palace with royalty and servants.
Words are words,
But poesy is behind your eyes.
Words are just cues for your imagination,
Stairs to the apex
Of the shivering fever of admiration.
The room where your soul can cry
With beauty’s intoxication.
This is poesy,
A thread to a secret room of mind candy.
Hallucination.
Poesy is the oldest LSD known to men.
Still they cannot ban it.
Government satraps get intoxicated too,
Reading beauty.
Poetry is the burglar of hearts.
Sentimental heist.
Don Juan is a poet-thief,
Caressing young souls with his romantic staccato,
Pen tip bathed in the tears
Of an innocent heart.
Prometheus didn’t steal only fire for us,
But something more valuable:
The oxygen for the soul,
Sparks from heaven’s fire,
Verses.
Fire is the Yang,
Yin the black flame of a heartbeat.
Blood of the soul.
Night of the day.
Half dreaming, half awake.
Color of dreams.
Magical scar,
Engraved in the philosophers’ stone.
Alchemical journey.
Beyond infinite.
Mystic sight.
Incarnated.
Mind plane.
You’re now an aviator,
Gliding in the sky of reasons.
Take your parachute:
5 4 3 2 1
Go!
Admire the horizon
And earth’s curvature.
You’re a poet now,
Flying in the skies
Of letters.
Look beneath your soul:
See the panorama?
Poetic fields,
Verses strings,
Lake mirrors,
Burned sands.
Literature!
. . .
🌸 If my words found a place in you, a little support means the world. → Ko-fi 💫