Continuing my trip through poems about various vocations, here’s one about a poet. How’s that for meta? The poet who inspired this is named Mort Krahling (1944-1998), and I wrote it in 1999.
My head is full of poems tonight:
They echo in a speaking voice
and tell of spring and age and choice
and sing of darkness more than light.
I hear but never knew the man;
I only know the words he gave
that sang him to an early grave
and bring him back to life again.
Sometimes it’s those who know it best
who wrestle with our fallen words–
that every joy holds pain unheard,
that anguish still attends our rest.
Yet we keep writing in the dark,
yet we keep praying for relief,
even as we map the edge of grief
still tend in hope the fragile spark;
We cast our echoes to the wind
and carve our metaphors on hearts
for somehow now the fire starts
and somewhere spring begins again.
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