by: Paul Sohar
Set ablaze by an objectless desire.
As he directs his restlessly metric feet
To an unmapped journey he must complete.His only way out is to go up in smoke.
Sneak into the sky and up there invoke
The freedom of birds and flying insects.
That’s the story his poetry reflects.
Every poem is a smoke signal sent
Into the human forest in a sacrament.
Not an alarm to the fire brigade,
But neither is it oil on the fire laid
In an appeal for crowds of adoring eyes;
The torch of poetry is not a disguise.
The poet only roams his own forest fire
To find a name for his object of desire.
A poem is a fancy fault in the crust
Of everyday life and therefore a must;
It’s all about a forest we will never see
Unless we hike the blazing trails of poetry.