[Newspoetry] The Body of a Man

[DL Emerick]

The Body of a Man

The hands of a poet are dirty,
for poets touch unclean things,
not to make them clean,
but to know them,
as they happen to be,
the order of a universe,
undisturbed, but observed,
described and recorded,
in aesthetic translation
from object to subject words.

The ears of a poet are keen,
listening to birds trilling,
calling up their mates,
luring away menacing foes,
chirping song singing,
an accidental music
to ears overhearing them.

The lips of a poet speak forbidden words,
address the hidden depths of souls,
that will not come out of caves,
for fear that the day is light,
and eyes in darkness be blinded,
trying to see more than man should see.

The eyes of a poet are transcendental,
already above the material world,
a zeit-geist floating,
Hegel's spirit quoting.

Stand against yourself,
know your self walking away from you,
the identity loses itself in self-difference,
ever returning,
spiraling back,
never entering back into what was you,
for the waters ever change.