If poetry is the art of saying
And if that which is most worth saying
Is least amenable to being said;
Then perhaps poetry is the most necessary of arts.
An education in sheer humanity,
For mere humans and conversation with them,
Silent resonant conversations, when what is hinted,
Is greater than what is said.
The threatening implication buried in innuendo
Is not the less threatening for all that.
Indeed, it is the more insidious
For being hidden,
For being human.
Nothing is more threatening than love
The Eucatastrophe that comes on fiercely
It also comes on slowly,
For fear of blinding sightless eyes,
And deafening the stoppered ears,
The joy is hidden in words
Forever falling short
As words must always do.
Even “I love you,” leaves everything unsaid.
Do others often hear
In your words
That which you never meant to say?
I say what I most need to hear,
While he hears what he most needs to say,
And we get on swimmingly.
At my very, very best I can sometimes manage
(For half a minute, perhaps,
Certainly no more)
To share my emptiness.
It is my best quality.
It is, in fact, my only quality.
I have never said what I truly thought
For I do not know what that is.
I have never shared who I truly am
For I do not know who that is.
I have never truly loved,
For, despite my efforts,
I do not know how.
It is enough to know the One who Truly Is