Standing on a Stanza

I refrain from writing any poems nowadays - and this is the last one I wrote a year and a half ago. It's about a particular person who helped shape my life.

 

Standing on a stanza

caught between an epic and a sonnet

lies the words without rhymes

(or fanciness)

 

teetering and crumbling

like a skyscraper

are your metaphors

pulling me in/pushing me away

 

poetic without intention

blunt without remorse

yet nevertheless

You are real

 

the sirens sing

the anaphora euphoric

and all the imagery in the world

couldn’t make you more beautiful.

 

The worst thing about a poem

lies within the timing

as you cannot beat a poem

out of nothing

 

it must flow/It must ignite

tacked with meaning: joined with truth

personified to hell and back

all of the sake of understanding

 

poetry is stated life

not imitated, not artificial

truth without the wrappings/the ribbons

You are stated life.

 

Harsh, distant, abrasive is a poem

(much like you)

the way you hold nothing back

but hold everyone away

 

(Poetry as you) this is the task:

slip in, say what you must,

then go – just go

and don’t return

 

Unless

Unless it’s Necessary

 

and yet

emotion stirs/leaks/dribbles

masquerading as some horrid simile

but stunning all the same

 

(You as poetry)

has none of the answers

but provides all the questions

to ideas never conjured

 

Standing on a stanza

caught between an epic and a sonnet

You are my poem

And I, the poet.

 

 

Author's Note

who do you think the speaker is talking to?