the poets down here don't write nothing at all

It's National Poetry Day (or it was). One of those frou-frou days I cringe at, though I suppose it serves a purpose for that part of the population that isn't usually reminded of the world of creativity except as it pertains to children's artwork on the refrigerator. But, for one crowded hour ... this is the thought for this evening, in deference to those poets (good and bad); this is where I am (inside), with my other personal poet laureate ...

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart) i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go, my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)
i fear

not fate(for you are my fate,my sweet) i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)


thank you e e
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Further Readings:
Who Keeps Killing Poetry?
Why Poetry Matters Now