The Spotlight

[Original Image can be found here]

There was a seed named
after my descendants, which
was supposed to grow
brown, orange & purple,
strong and rooted like an oak,
branching out its stems of inspirations
meant to flourish the most
mouth-watering fruits
on the tongues of those who listened.

You listened just as well as I delivered
orchestra of questions, I want to know:
can you dance to the beats of my heart?

Or are you just gonna stand still?

From poem to prose.

That’s how much you can handle.

How can you ask a poet
to be less of a poet?
To change a line of a poem?
To relocate a stanza because
it makes you uncomfortable?
To make it shorter?
To reconsider poetry in your life?
To say that poems for this poet
are nothing but the spotlight.

It’s effortless to explain
that when I was kid my favorite
thing to do was to climb on trees,
and spend the afternoons
listening to her sounds
holding her as if we were both one
and that this one day it was like
she transferred stems of inspirations
to me and the most
mouth-watering fruits
flourished on the tongues of those who listened.
So I started being a poet, I would write my poems
in her dead leaves, hoping to bring them to live:
I was only 6 or 5.
How can that be the spotlight…?

And even if none of that happened…
And the poet had just now become
a poet, supposed to grow
brown, orange & purple,
strong and rooted like an oak,
how can’t you see that
my brain vibrates to my hearts
which pulsate to my hands,
which let go of my tongue,
which travels as a nomad to
the countries of images and words
formed by the first breath we breathed
You wouldn’t think I’d notice that:
It was a dead gasp of air.

From poem to poem.

That’s how’s spirit is created,
fire is lit, mountains are moved,
ground is established, 
love is discovered.
Poem are my leaves
and they will never die.



Templates Novo Blogger 2008