The idea of a poem is not in its rhyme,
It is more ethereal, more sublime.
The primary emotion that evokes a line.
Comes from within, without define.
It comes in a moment, a brilliant flash.
Or it seeps in slowly, begging to ask.
Am I worthy of a poem?
Am I worthy to last?
Or just a passing thought,
Gone missing in the past.
And so we enter the poet's dilemma,
Finding that thought that makes a difference.
It cannot be got through scientific inference.
It cannot be got through total indifference.
It must have come from something of substance,
Not a wild thought that nags your existence.
It must come together in a moment of truth,
Like sensing existence comes in your youth.
The poet's bane and the poet's delight,
Is getting it wrong and getting it right.
When you're wrong, you're wrong, and have to accept it.
But when you're right, it's right and you can't deny that,
In the fight for existence, the poem's the thing,
That quickens the heart and makes it sing.
The idea of a poem?
I knew all along.
It’s the heart of a poem,
And words for a song.
Copyright 2001 © Ronald W. Hull