Monday, June 23, 2014

For the Last Romantic

My favorite labyrinth, the Seed Labyrinth by Sara Jones

There are some who believe poems are writ
from the sophisticated theories we invent
as if inspiration was the conscript
of a very specific determinant
that was made with formulas and instruments
so that the unexpected was from intent
and surprise was merely mismanagement
from a factory of ambiguousness.

Then reading your verse earlier today,
listening to the words and all they say,
I began to float on the music they made
from the melodies in every phrase
along the correspondence you arranged
with the chords inlaid and delicately played
and carried by a cadence sustained
by the beat of your heart upon the page.

Poems are not contrived from designs,
they are released from within, deep inside,
and the deeper one’s concentration dives
the higher one’s inspiration flies,
making brazen leaps to span the divides
in the endless potential of our lives
from the wonder of a child’s awakening mind
to the timeless kindness in a grandmother’s eyes.

Garrett Buhl Robinson

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