2010-05-01 Archive, Poetry, How Does It Feel

2007-09-21

“How does it feel?” I hear your words.
“How does it feel to write poetry?”
How does it feel? I ask myself.
But I should be asking someone else.

How does it feel, young David,
Lover of stars, keeper of sheep?
How does it feel to stand in the middle,
Surrounded by brothers,
While some old man, the prophet of God,
Pours oil on your head,
‘Till it runs down your neck?
Then he opens his mouth and changes your life
With the words,
“Thus says the Lord, you shall be king.”
And here you are, years later,
Running for life, hiding in caves,
Chased by three thousand.
How does it feel to be running away,
A spear throw from death,
When the words come,
And enter your mind:

“The Lord is my shepherd,
I shall not want …,
Though I walk through the valley
Of the shadow of death
I fear no evil,
For You are with me.”

How does it feel, writer of psalms?
Did you eat up the words?
Or chew them well, to memorize them?
Because, God knows,
You did not have
a pen and parchment
To write them down,
while running.

Or you, Georg Frideric Handel,
How does it feel, when the music starts,
And you hear it play, in your mind?
And you frantically write it
For weeks, scarcely eating,
Day and night you keep writing,
To not lose it in sleep.
How does it feel, having captured it all,
“Handel’s Messiah?”
And the rest of your life
You perform it in concerts
To benefit the poor.
How does it feel
When the chorus rings out
In a hallelujah so grand
That even the king
Feels compelled to stand
Before God and His Angels?

“How does it feel to write poetry?”
The feeling’s intense, but not always sad.
But I cry every time as I try to make
The words fit the feelings that I can’t shake.
Sometimes the words don’t fit.

Why isn’t it light, like Tinker-Bell’s laugh?
Or the whisper of wind passing through pines?
Why isn’t it soft, like the patter of rain?
Or a baby’s first smile, from the manger?
Is it because I don’t listen?