April, according to this poet, is the cruelest month.
April, according to these lovers of poetry, is National Poetry Month, and the only cruelty is metaphorical (which isn’t to say T.S. Eliot was being literal except, well…)
In honor of this month, and since I don’t post on my blog as much these days, I’ll (re)share some of my published poetry. And that begs the question, if a poem falls in the Internet and no one reads it, is it still poetry?
Of course it is.
Poem #4: Charlie Parker’s Premonition (gratitude to Five:2:One Journal for publishing this one in 2017).
At least Bach believed in God—this is what saved him.
Can you fathom that freedom, the peace of such certainty?
In thrall to exigency, at once owned yet refusing ownership
of one’s art. Accepting endowments that, on blessed occasions,
override routine; on hallowed days clamor for consummation
in a voice you alone are capable of divining, or better still,
chosen to channel: a commission you neither oppose nor suppress.
Sadly for the faithless, God’s accessible only through transcription,
and often selects vessels not spiritually suited for the exchange.
How would you handle the hot urgency of some holy inspiration
if it awoke inside your mind, screaming like a starved exile?
Could you mitigate earthly debt in the sacred currency of psalms?
Or would you require synthetic unction to abide the consecration
of a million illimitable miracles—even if you scoff at such stuff?
Bonus footage of me reading this one:
