by snowcoveredmuse2Farmington, Maine, USAJul 20181 comments

Poet to Poet-2018

Poet to Poet
Sleep evades/
So many questions/
So few answers/

The gift is to the giver, and comes back most to him--it cannot fail. --Walt Whitman

Dearest Poet,
Something out of nothing.
Nothing so wondrous as the poet's making--
requiring so little in the way of raw materials--
and yet so much (dreams, memories, passion).

Do we do it out of love for
that phallic symbol, the pencil?
Is the pencil like a lover's magic wand--
beloved for the enchantment it
creates out of our own substance?

Or is it the simplicity of the tool?
The same tool that makes
children's drawings, telephone doodles,
lists of figures can also make worlds!

The ordinariness of the miracle.
It reminds us that creation
is both commonplace and divine.


Giving a gift that cannot
but be given away--
a song, a poem, love,
breast-milk to a baby--
enriches the giver above all.

The circle is completed.
The gift comes back.
The daily practice of an
art enriches no one so fully
as it does the practitioner.
It is a thank you to God
for the gift of consciousness.

Out of that,
I have written this.
Out of emptiness
comes fullness.
Out of hunger
comes nourishment.
Out of unrequited
love come songs.

The poet, writing,
always spins
a web to join
her emptiness
with the fullness of
remembered love.

Remembered love
from childhood,
remembered love
never requited,
remembered love
perhaps only imagined.

Nobody can tell you
how to make the poem.
You must earn it word by word.
Nobody can give it to
you but yourself.
You cannot buy talent,
nor can you extinguish
talent by selling it.

But you can confuse
the bearer of it,
making him or her think
that mortality is not
the common condition.

We pass. Our breath
stains some pages.
We pass the pages
on as proof that we were here.


The poem is a self-feeding,
a self-nourishment, a self-love.

To call it "therapy" is to diminish it.
What is the difference
between therapy and self-love?

All the difference in the world.

I must close, poet
Write soon!

~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Jul 2018
About this poem:
I have been journaling since I was nine... Dear Diary evolved over the years to Poet to Poet- Coffee shop at the Edge of the Universe. Where the smell of burnt toast fills the air, Me in a corner booth scribbling on napkins so I don't choke on metaphors...

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Comments (1)

lovecanberealonline today!
Hi, SCmuse, nice to see you
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on Jul 2018
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