It is usually around night
that poets sit and scribble words. But I am not them.
I am not like them; who'll light a candle
to confirm the handwriting in which they've written with-
four hundred million five hundred six; they who think
naked is undressed. They who are just
poets; who lick paper when the door is either closed or opened.
I am not them. I will write at half past midnoon
with my eyes closed, and still know words like none other. I, who believe
that even the shredding of skin is not naked. I am not just a poet,
I am the desert, the Sahara. The naked one, the culmination of every word you speak. I am too many
to be crumbled. I am one who leaves
so many fingers untied; who moves her arm and licks paper
with no tongue,
when the door is closed,
yet opened. So damn opened.
A contest entry
- 35 Confessions by Heart Sutra.
2200 points, ended February 16, 2008, 14 entries
Bronze trophy winner
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Comments
1 - 13 of 13
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this is simply succulent. i'm bookmarking this so i can read it over and over
this is my kind of poetry 
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you deserved it, woman! congrats.
.
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You wield a gifted pen, Poet. I understand this one well. Congratulations on a well~deserved chalice. Wanda
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congratulations on a well deserved placement
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forgot these...
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congratulations, this was indeed a strong piece...
al -
Interesting.
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this is so damned fantastic. second stanza definitely won me over.
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Second stanza is amazing. This is good stuff.
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This is wonderful poetry, and somehow made me think of Neruda ... I haven't been online in quite a while but always delighted to find something new from your pen. Doors is such a powerful and visual metaphor!
~ Nicolette
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this poem is so good -
"I am not just a poet,
I am the desert, the Sahara."..that you are...beautiful
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even the shredding of skin is not naked... wish i had written that..
wonderful poetry.. wonderful imagery that really captures the reader
m
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whew. whoa!!! i don't know what sort of poet i am. but this makes complete sense to me
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