What is a poem?
Is it the rhythm of inhaling and exhaling
while taking a step to the right or left
to find a place of balance here and now,
to test the ground and have a leg to stand on?
Is it left brain sifting particles of data
and right brain riding the wave of the moment
in a cryptic dialog navigating through shadows
toward safe transport to somewhere else?
Is it a symbiosis of equal and opposites,
part making and part beholding,
both push and pull, gather and spread,
like cooking and eating or traveling and being there?
Is it instrumental, therapeutic, and useful,
a way to live with disappointment and heartache,
or is it autotelic, ecstatic, pointless, and sweet,
neither this nor that? Clearly not this.
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