In the Election of Poetry

I am a poet: I feel within my brain
certain blows, ever-erupting blows; sometimes, not even that.
Heavenly, sometimes hellish pulsations of myriad ideas beat there, and keep beating.
In my mind I feel burning images
or scenes, like stars cold as ice yet ablaze.
My heart sometimes becomes a monster, volcanic heat spills from it.
I climb the sky, plunge into bottomless chasms,
I have dwelt many, many times in both—the ocean's roar and restless storms.

I am a poet: my soul
escapes effortlessly from each prison of this world,
and in other places, in other worlds,
spreads wide its arrogant wings;
drinks light from palaces struck by lightning,
orbits realms no spacecraft has ever reached;
and through various associations and landscapes
penetrates or wanders.

I am a poet: I endure the murmurs and rumors of men,
not knowing or half-knowing when the violin within me
strikes what chord, they try endlessly to understand me.
In the black world of graves I have wept,
I have floated to the erratic rhythm of river waves,
again, I have seen myself conquered and unconquered by war and storm,
...and understood,
truly, love and country—these two keep me alive,
the human heart keeps my poetry alive,
my faith, my humanity, and certain magic keep my ease alive.

I am a poet: I feel within my brain
certain blows, ever-erupting blows; sometimes, not even that.
I am a poet because I have learned to see humanity through human eyes.