Poet A kettle in the hands of a builder is nothing but a metallic object that may perhaps paste cement onto a wall. So is a spade in the hands of a Professor nothing but a tool to initiate incisiveness to his theories. Thus the truth is fair and simple; an element of importance can only retain its worth when used for the appropriate task by the designated user...other than that, no offense should be held against its lack of performance. When the poet is constrained by circumstance to live in digits, be a profound accountant by profession and not by heart, condemn him not. When the need to survive overrides the passion to write rehearse and recite, and rather now he writes and writes and writes, combining jargon with digits to explain to a panel of shareholders simple things in big words, then hold not his reluctance upon him. A pencil in the hands of freedom, a reservoir in the flood of emotions, a fish in the ocean of expression; the man is meant to make life out of words and build castles of hope in the discouraged souls of the needy of his touch. The man is meant to minister the art of peaceful war; with the shield of directed speech, transparent ammunition of meaning and a war cry of emphasis and projection... The man is meant to be a poet. But hey, in apathy, in reality, he seats behind his cubicle trying to make sense of numbers and percentiles with a hefty boss threatening to fire. Only when he cheats away with a moment does he write to post, “The man was meant to be a poet!” Elias Kunaka#love_for_poetry
Posted on: Thu, 10 Jul 2014 13:02:30 +0000
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