I Call Myself a Poet

2025-03-15

I often feel that as a poet I am destined to live through the infliction, the gain and the loss, the incandescence and the darkness, of a continuing bruise. I have to confront too many truths, and make sense of them, I have to face the world with too much honesty, and to crack open too many of my lies and illusions. I feel alone, trying to tell the story so I camouflage the truth, to iron up to rebuffs and to the reality of losing space. To know that I am both a mirror and a weapon, though I profess I'm just an agent of stories whose words sometimes seem like a ...

I feel alone, trying to tell the story so I camouflage the truth, to iron up to rebuffs and to the reality of losing space. To know that I am both a mirror and a weapon, though I profess I'm just an agent of stories whose words sometimes seem like a lunging sabre.

When all I do is to sit on a desk alone, with a single bulb throwing shadows on my notebook, a pen which makes a scraping noise as I write, shovelling out the detritus of memory, scraping my heart and soul for revelations, which would help me unravel my own mystery.

Why do I do what I do, why does the universe pull me towards disaster and then helps me flee, why do I rebuff destiny, why do I run away from sanctuary?

And then I stop in my heels, and realize that I know. I'm merely being the poet that I am. No more, no less.

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