Poetry

What is poetry to me?

Nothing less than everything
Whether scorned or understood
It is my own heart I sing
Written down in my own blood

No parlor game nor hobby
Point and purpose of my life
Vocation not vacation
Lonely friend and only wife

No cheap trick for attention
Profoundest obligation
The still point the suspension
Of disbelief for magic

The crossing of life and death
Triumphant now then tragic
In my heartbeat on my breath
Living growing in each cell

The made maker makes to be
Curse and build destroy and bless
Heaven purgatory hell
Nothing more and nothing less

Who I am and how I live
It is that on which I feed
All I have and what I give
It is everything I need

What am I but poetry?
I do not write for the shelf
Not to make these books you see
But to save my soul myself

What is poetry but me?

+Steven Curtis Lance



Copyright MMV

nicely defined. really poetry is a way of pious life, delving deeper into darkness
to discover the ray of brightness---- a priceless action with a valuable satisfaction

good steve you made it fortifying

supani

Thank you so much, my dear friend Supani.

Love,

+Stevie

superb write... so tangible and almost reachable, but it just manages to escape my fingertips, wonderful, wonderful feeling evoked from this piece. Yummm. Thank you.


misty

Thanks, Misty. I used this poem as the Epilogue for my book, The Little Book of Lance. I'm glad you understood what I was saying; I know, as a powerful practitioner of the art of poetry yourself, that you can relate to and appreciate my feelings.

Respect and solidarity, dear friend and fellow poet. Thank you for all you give us!

Love,

+Stevie