Theidea of a poem is not in its rhyme,
Itis more ethereal, more sublime.
Theprimary emotion that evokes a line.
Comesfrom within, without define.
Itcomes in a moment, a brilliant flash.
Orit seeps in slowly, begging to ask.
AmI worthy of a poem?
AmI worthy to last?
Orjust a passing thought,
Gonemissing in the past.
Andso we enter the poet's dilemma,
Findingthat thought that makes a difference.
Itcannot be got through scientific inference.
Itcannot be got through total indifference.
Itmust have come from something of substance,
Nota wild thought that nags your existence.
Itmust come together in a moment of truth,
Likesensing existence comes in your youth.
Thepoet's bane and the poet's delight,
Isgetting it wrong and getting it right.
Whenyou're wrong, you're wrong, and have to accept it.
Butwhen you're right, it's right and you can't deny that,
Inthe fight for existence, the poem's the thing,
Thatquickens the heart and makes it sing.
Theidea of a poem?
Iknew all along.
It’sthe heart of a poem,
Andwords for a song.
Copyright 2001 © Ronald W. Hull
11/11/01