The poet goes hungry if he has no words to pick
from the dish in the kitchen of his lexicon to
suit his imagination! If he was a gourmet without
the recipe! If he were meandering aimlessly on the
keyboard till an idea struck him, like a prey in the woods
that is so sudden in serendipity. Does the poet try to
secure his creativity in the hearts of others, his
readership, like a delectable veal that was distributed among
the village? Is that the second rapture, from the
appreciation, after the first rapture of being creative,
the idea taking form in words? I believe, the poet
always hungers, while giving others food for thought!
If you can see he wants to scale philiosophies, ideograms
like a platform over platform, like stratocumulus over stratus,
like cirrocumulus over cirrostratus over cirrus over
altocumulus! And then of course the stars! Would he wish to
be the light shining through the storm clouds of
your life, wishing that he render you a gift from his poem,
if you meet him through his poem. Or, somewhere in the ghost
city of a forgotten poem, that you may pick up, accidentally,
a solitary word, idiom or phrase that may resonate your
redemption for a day, if not a lifetime! And give evidence of
his vision. That you may be mentored by his implicit pedagogy,
even if his own mentoring was non-descript, and he just crawled
out of the woodwork of unschooled wisdom. If he can, somehow,
prevent the non-feasance of your mind’s framework. And that would give
the humble poet a subconscious gratification, a rousing efficacy,
that would stone-engrave his purpose, like an epitaph on his grave!
