The problem with poetry

a poem, words and voice

Impression in Soulac sur Mer, NICOLAS TARKHOFF

Poetry asks for soul, heart, inside, out.
Demanding sun setting,
sky pink and green 
in spectral lyricism.

And what about that time
of day when the crickets
and the cicada play their dueling
symphonies in rattling 
clacking waves— 
this must be woven in too,
summer sounds filling the 
poetic dusk.

Writer, word invaded, 
like a butterflied flower, 
all nectar drunk, they
take what they want
forcing their way in, 
wording a page.

Doubting self, heart, soul, 
every stanza, word, comma, 
dash — period.

Cruel meaningful words 
use writers to cry them.

My solidifying heart still
dripping with steel
looks at poetry,
sees absurd nonsensical 
word rationing.

Aren’t words more peaceful in prose? 
There they can relax and breathe 
in all that company,
and not carry
heavy meaning-laden weight
so alone.

Poetry asks so much of each
word, punctuation,
the writer, even more,
and for what?

So many hope to be read pages.

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