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Stoic Poet

Is it just me?
Am I really alone in believing that a poem
Is more than a series of lines of well-timed rhymes?
Am I the only one who can see that 5-7-5
Is still just a string of silly syllables
If the subject covered is ubiquitous or trite?

How many poetic celebrations of the coming of spring do we really need?
How many descriptions of a lover’s raven locks?
Or her ivory breasts?
Or the stars in her eyes?
Or the stars in the sky for that matter?

I have been told my poems are not very feminine.
Must every poetess focus on domestic felicity?
Is it a literary sin for me to write about philosophy?
I will admit I have little interest in romantic fantasy,
But I know how to hypnotize my listeners
And draw them into a universe that only I could envision.

My poems are meant to be read aloud.
I put as much effort into creating a meter
That will carry the reader along at just the right pace,
As I do into fitting a certain word into the perfect place.

A poem is similar to a symphony
In that it should have a rise and fall.
It should have leitmotifs and fugues.
It should have layers of tones and counterpoint
Playing in the sounds of the vowels and the consonants.
It should have an underlying structure that holds the whole together.
And, yet, it should be deceptively simple,
Like a harpsichord concerto by Mozart.

Once I have selected from my phonetic palette
The collection of sounds I want my readers to ride on,
I focus on creating the images I intend to carry them through.
Willowy women in white linen gowns and satin slippers
Strolling on the shores of waveless lakes at midnight in starlight
Are free to clutter other poets’ sonnets.
My poems tend to present the unexpected.

Most importantly, I pour my soul into every poem.
Raw emotion is the only fuel for any form of art.
I never sit at my desk staring at my own scribblings,
Struggling to come up with another a word that rhymes with “love”.

When, in some moment of empty reverie,
An opening couplet pops into my head,
I give thanks!
My muse, who is probably me at some deeper level,
Has granted me a poem as a reward
For my unflagging efforts to understand myself
And my limitless willingness to listen to my inner voices,
Which everybody possesses but very few release to run free
In the halls of their creative imaginations
Where great dramas could play out
In a theater in the round
Surrounded by sculptures and paintings
And accompanied by orchestra and chorus.

We all possess the potential to express ourselves in a meaningful way
But we can only hope to do this in a state of complete fearlessness.
Until a poet finds the courage to expose to the world
The things about herself that she most wants to hide from herself
She is wasting everyone’s time.

A good friend once reminded me that Seneca was never a best seller,
But he has been in print for centuries.
The truth beautifully stated
Will make its way into the collective consciousness
And remain there for as long as it is relevant.

I have no idea whether I will ever achieve this,
But I will set my goals no lower!

poem by Suzanne Hayasaki
Added by Poetry Lover
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