The Stranger
From that mysterious island in the sky,
far beyond my eyes and ears and arms,
wreathed in a fragrant mist of purple haze,
with a beating heart and saintly mind,
of an ancient language from a different time,
of me before I became the me I am,
that knew me in the womb, in my early days
while I was content with the life I knew;
it found me and followed me along the path
in the name of poetry, of a language unknown.
With its tears and tentacles it reached down
into my stolid heart and took away my self.
It became me as I stood
on the outside looking in.
I saw it open up the heavens before me
and I saw its blood flowing thru its veins.
I saw its graceful undulations
and rhythmic vibrations.
I loved the way it spoke to me
in a zealous voice,
the way it took me to ride with the wind,
to break loose from my moorings and fly,
to forget the earth and become the ether,
to commit myself to all celestial things,
a man without a body and another’s mind,
but a genius with a poem in his heart,
writing words from someone else’s thoughts.
As I looked down at what I wrote,
I couldn’t understand or explain it.
I became a genius trying to become a genius,
standing on the ground with earthly thoughts,
trying to break loose again but couldn’t.
All I know is how I felt when I was a poet
riding with the wind
and speaking the language of the strangers.
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