I Know Where My Poems Dwell
By: Gina Arnold
My poems float above me —
they draw my eyes up like a magnet
and I am helpless to stop it.
But, you see, it’s a beautiful kind of helpless:
I surrender to the very best this world has to offer
without hesitation.
I am the willing slave to greatness.
With my pen in hand:
I kowtow to the skyscrapers
that shoot toward the stars;
I kneel before the computer
that can access all of human knowledge
at the slightest touch
instantly;
I bow to the sweeping symphonies
that are ordered by the mind of man
into a sound so true it can capture
human existence without the aid of words;
I surrender to the god that is the
thinking, creating, man.
I know where my poems dwell.
Every poem that I pen has sprung
from the gods that walk on Earth.
Every poem is an ode to the potential of man
that can be — that ought to be.
My poems are not born from the light of the stars
but from the brilliance of light bulbs and the glow of screens.
My poems are not born from birds that fly their migratory paths
but from the planes and jets that criss-cross the globe.
My poems are not born from the song of crickets
but from the perfect chords of a piano.
My poems hide in the physical manifestation of
human genius —
in the proof of gods on Earth.
And as I pull my poems from their origins,
I act in accordance with the divine:
I think.
I create.
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