By Thomas Page

 

What are poems made of?
Are they made of chalk scribbled on concrete
Or are they reflections found in mirrors,
Or are they made of acrylic, 
Or of the condensation of the sky,
Or even the quiet moments found in the fading light in eyes
That meet for a moment?

The poets liken them to be an extension of themselves—
Their teeth—
Their tongues—
Their bones—
Their blood—
Their marrow—
Their fat—
That they are liars
With their lyres
Made of themselves
To sing to the world

I’ve heard poets greater than myself say poems are rivers, blades of grass, morning suns, and banana trees.

I’ve heard poets greater than myself say poems are a confessional, a business, an outlet, an easel, and a blot of ink.

I’ve heard poems greater than my own in lullabies, in goodbyes, in cries of happiness or of pain.

I’ve heard poems greater than my own in traffic, in rush hour, in line, and in college discussion boards.

Poems are, in my opinion of my limited time in comparison to it all, everything and nothing—
Personal and impersonal—
Familiar and alien—
Always and never.

Poems are like the fleeting notes from a guitar which may strike the air for a moment
But are absorbed into the rhythm of the day.

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