Life Laureate

painting of leonard cohen from keelinggallery.com

Life Laureate

“A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense

of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.”

--Robert Frost.

Our poetry reflects

who we are & are not;

a clever mirror.

There are those who consider poetry as a gift

                 to a classroom,

                 to a cherished one,

                 to the unwashed,

                 to the uninformed,

                 to the world entire;      and there are Others

                           who interpret it as a

compulsion, addiction, fault, blessing, catharsis,

blood letting, regurgitation, love making, or epiphany--

                 the most direct way to capture

                          the minutia of life, splendid role-playing,

                                   both vicariously & personally; to become

the eyes of a hungry hawk,

the legs of a racing cheetah,

the claws of a bear,

the wisps of mist on a desolate moor,

the powerful arms of a mountain gorilla,

the pool of oil on the tarmac,

the brown recluse feasting on a fly,

the barb on a wire,

the smoking tires on a hot rod,

the smooth pebbles in a stream,

the swell of a titanic wave toppling a great ship,

the chill of awakening under a bridge--or in a doorway, park, or alley,   

the reward of holding your newborn for the first time,

the chaotic & terrifying dirge of heated battle,

the target for a bullet, fist, insult, or a kiss,

the participant in an adulterous affair,

the act of a criminal, priest, dog catcher, whore, or politician,

the shame of a cop looming pridefully over an unarmed dead black man,

the callous arrogance of a school yard or elected bully,

the inspiring sight of steel, glass & concrete as a skyscraper rises,

the gorgeous flow of a blue highway stretching across a high plateau,

the climax of coitus as two incomplete souls merge into one orgasm,

the crack of a wooden bat belting out a home run,

the sensuous revealing of a lover’s breasts,

the aching memory of parents lost, of children stolen;

                all this & so very much more because

the is no end, no down side to poetic insights,

               no detour or wash-out or stopping point

for our words that spill, emerge, & are whelped 

out of every orifice,

or the accompanying emotion

that colors & spices their journey.     

When life stirs my gut,

I must reach for the poet’s quill

and record everything.        

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets Pub Poetics