What is a poem?

A poem is a struggle,

to say the unsayable,

a call to divinity,

to pray the unprayable.

Oops.  Forgive me; I fell into rhyme.

The modern technique is to seek the sublime

by leading the reader with cadence and time,

and writing in prose and hoping to score

the same thing today as we did before.

Slap my face!

Sorry, I’ll switch….

(Mais où sont les neiges d'antan?)

A poem is puppy breath,

perhaps even the pup,

but certainly the breath.

It signals the ineffable, 

but always fails: 

the ineffable is still ineffable,

and always will be,

notwithstanding the poem.

(I’ve been poeming for over sixty years, 

take my word for it).

It helps you almost see what cannot be seen,

almost hear what cannot be heard.

Almost.

A poem is a door knob….

There.  See?

(Might be a decent middle for a haiku, 

except I guarantee you some literary troublemaker

will say poem only has one syllable:  like pome, 

and the middle of a haiku needs seven, 

as everyone on the planet knows.

It just never ends.).

A poem is a thing, a thing that derails you,

and makes you glad you were thrown off the track.

If you don’t believe a poem is a thing, read my essay

The Ontology of a Poem 

which I may write someday.

(I’m also a philosopher 

but poetry’s more fun;

the philosopher just sits,

while the poet's on a run!)

Oh man, my cheek's starting to sting….

Poets have a tiny audience, a great man once told me,

which is fine by me.

Some poets have an audience of one, I responded.

(If you are reading this, 

I at least have an audience of two:  

an audience of me, 

and an audience of you).

Oops.  Careful.  Sorry.  Ouch!

I really need to work on that….

I am a poet.  

I’ve been poeming for over sixty years.

To be honest, 

I really don’t know what a poem is.

But here’s a haiku:

What is a poem?

Puppy breath is a poem.

I want a puppy.

Count’em.  5, 7, 5

-- Joe