“I believed that I wanted to be a poet, but deep
down I just wanted to be a poem.”
     Jaime Gil de Biedma

To be not thought that seeks words
but words that stalk thought,
a hunting heron that slowly moves
one foot, then the other, until
blade of beak strikes, catches
the word that feeds the soul. 

To be not eye that searches out image
frames, shapes it, but image itself
that blooms, demands house-room,
curls around memory, creates the new
from bits of old light. 

To be the puzzle, word seeking word,
play of rhyme, repetition, music.
Ordering nonsense, disrupting order,
hoping to stumble into beauty. 

To achieve the final distillation,
mysterious and clear, where each word
rings true to its name while answering
to all it echoes.