Poetry isn’t an hermetic container contained in itself,
it isn’t the silence that explodes the night
or the pain of an open wound
or the giant’s shadow
or the longing of your lips for a kiss that slowly kills.
It is all that and more: it is nothing.
It’s the cat’s walk in an empty theatre,
a hundred and one eyes on blind mirrors,
the Burning of Troy without a horse,
your belly, my relief, and your sex – the bed where I dream.
It’s metaphor, verse and shit and love and concealed hatred,
it’s the padlock and the key, it’s the way out, it’s confinement.
Poetry is not an hermetic container contained in itself.
(via Little Jamie)