Palimpsest

How?

How does one become a poet?

Where does this arrogance arise

That I would propose such a thing?

It is a label bestowed by others, not mine

And fraught with much unpleasant baggage.

Effete and dilatorious dilettantes

Playing at sophistication

Spouting free-verse nonsense

Only to become the fools

Consumed by their own passions.

But really, it’s not my fault.

Poets are not made.

Poets evolve on some isolated island,

Adapting to an environment

That is rarified, yet more attuned

To senses that others shun.

They see things that elude

The gaze of others

Intent upon their haste.

They adapt to survive.

Poetry is a profession one is forced into.

Poets consume themselves

Feasting on the flesh of yesterday

And gnawing at the bones of experience.

Poetry is a last resort

When you’ve nothing left to say

A fair assessment.

Poetry is a nasty habit

That carries its own burden of shame.

Addiction, they say, is a disease.

Treatable.

Poetry is a resistant strain,

A mutation

That targets the brain

And guides the hand.

There is no cure, no methadone relief.

There is no other choice

But to feed it.

Poetry is the last resort

For a voice to be heard.

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