Monday, October 3, 2011

The Poet

moves forward
to that edge
but lives sensibly,

through the senses
not because of them.

Above all he watches
where he steps.
As if it matters
where he leaves his prints.

The senses overwhelm him
at his peril.

Though he must be taken
by something greater.
That is what he uses
senses to perceive.

The poet's

task is simple
He looks for quiet,
and speaks to what
he finds there. 

But like Blake
in his engraving shop, works
with the fierceness
of acid on metal.

Melting apparent
surfaces away
and displaying
the infinite
which was hid.

In the early morning
he listens
by the window,
the first utterance
and tries to overhear
say something,
from which
in that silence,
it is impossible to retreat. 

David Whyte
photo:  Peter Bowers