If A Poet Writes A Poem In The Forest And Nobody Hears it, Is It Still A Poem?

I speak the language of trees

My graphite rustling

Murmuring softly, as footsteps in autumn do

Subtle as the earth, who

Is awaiting your final embrace

Even when I appear to be silent

I am full of song

A field wild with bloom through which you wander

These pages, gossamer as the wing of a moth

Are holding an anticipatory breath

Until your judgement can no longer lend it’s ear

Then my shy melody will come bursting forth

In riddles of rhyme, convoluted contortions

Scribed on the temple walls of my body

Flickering behind my eyelids

And twisting into tortured question marks

Every time my ink sodden notebook

Confronts a keyboard

 

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5 thoughts on “If A Poet Writes A Poem In The Forest And Nobody Hears it, Is It Still A Poem?

  1. It’s a poem even if it’s only in your head and no one gets to hear it. Great question, though. I ask myself the same question all the time and try to bring talented people to my forest. I enjoyed the last lines… “and twisting into tortured question marks every time…” Beautiful description of the process of transferring thought to a printed medium. Have a great Sunday, SB.

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