Poem Trapping

I read a book about how hard it is to catch a poem. I wonder if I ever have. Or have I just lunged at shadows while the real thing scampers off to eat from bushes, heavy with metaphors? What bait does a poem prefer? Dust in the morning light, dancing like angels after a storm. A case of beer shared between friends because words are too hard to pour. If you place a heart on the spring, is it better frozen or raw? Cut in half or a dozen pieces? Never whole.

A whole heart is a poem unto itself.

Out in the forest, the poem I’m hunting is getting fat, eating all its emotions. Storing kernels of truth to help through the winter. Becoming trees long after they’re forgotten. Here I am, sitting on the porch. Steaming coffee in one hand, pencil in the other, writing empty lines over empty lines. Weak descriptions of a stripped-down idea of a thing seen out the corner of my eye. Here I am, after the poem slipped my grasp,

Trying to fill space after being left behind

——————

A/N

This poem was inspired by a passage from Old School Indiana, by Aaron John Curtis:

In no uncertain terms, he did it much better. Overall, the book was written very well. For all the prudes out there, the sexual components were a little much at times, but that’s just my taste. I otherwise would recommend this book for its great narrative and strong poetry.