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Tony Di Bart
Member
since 2000-01-26
Posts 160
Toronto, Canada

0 posted 2000-02-01 07:16 PM



                What is the poet’s life?
                Where does the poet hide?
                Why does the poet see
                words dance, like birds
                through rays of ultraviolet?
                Is it some deviant brain or cell locked in a rose,
                coloured sheath of a myelin
                Is he a prophet, or only trying to profit,
                distill the events others are to busy to see

                Is he a quack, word weaver with no pattern.
                Why, how has he arrived at this junction in the road ,
                in the sentence ,between what is, what is mind,
                and what shall be spoken on a blank white page.
                Is he a drug smoking fiend or enlightened guru
                Can he find the truth where he refuses to look
                and yet sees crystals in the eyes of strangers.
                Is he a child growing old or a wise man staring
                through eyes of eternal youth.

                Is a flower beautiful repulsive red
                or pure radiant rose?
                Does it hold the secrets of the universe?
                Can it not talk to him and only  scream to him ?
                Can he not repeat the vulgar and the sublime wisdom that spews forth
                from it’s pistil, pedals, thorns, roots,
                **** sucking tentacles reaching for life  
                for eternity in the soil,  
                the beautiful brown womb that nurtures it

                He reaches for great minds occasionally,
                and does enjoy the sex, vagrant sex, begging, dirty unpure love,
                after intoxicating wine, red like the flesh beneath the white skin of the lily.
                Can anyone ever feel close to him,  his heart, his pores,
                flowing with sweat as they dance like cobras, one fatal dance.
                He longs for his muse, for breath to steal,
                his heart to give, for warmth to feel
                He longs like the flower for the soil

                Is this the poet
                one who sees all, talks of nothing,
                finds meaning in the passage of time
                and the random events that precipitate through the eternal moment
                Can he give through his words everything a soul
                and yet cannot find his own?
                He travels, in and out dazed through dreams
                night mares, riding white horses
                looking and trying to synthesize the meaning of life in a single word.
                He looks, he finds, he losses,
                he is a single drop of dew, an atom in the grand universe
                and  slowly he closes his eyes
                and is gone...

 Death makes angels of us all
and gives us wings
where we had shoulders
smooth as raven claws

Jim Morrison

© Copyright 2000 Anthony Di Bartolomeo - All Rights Reserved
Elizabeth Santos
Member Rara Avis
since 1999-11-08
Posts 9269
Pennsylvania
1 posted 2000-02-01 07:54 PM


Toni, This is quite a piece of poetry. I'm still reeling, so I don't know exactly what to say except that I would love to read more of your work, and I see that you have only posted 7 poems here. I hope to see more soon.
Liz

Denise
Moderator
Member Seraphic
since 1999-08-22
Posts 22648

2 posted 2000-02-01 08:05 PM


Welcome to Passions, Tony! This poem says much! I believe poets encompass this and so much more. They come from all walks and everyone writes for their own individual reasons! I think you have just about summed that up here!

Denise

Tony Di Bart
Member
since 2000-01-26
Posts 160
Toronto, Canada
3 posted 2000-02-01 08:09 PM


Thanks ladies.  I really enjoy this site.  I have posted on several other site but this is
my absolute favorite.  

I'm never leaving



 Death makes angels of us all
and gives us wings
where we had shoulders
smooth as raven claws

Jim Morrison

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