The Reveal

The painting, I have been told,

is already on the canvas before

the painter starts, the painter

just has to lovingly reveal it.

Much can be said about the

sculptor, tenderly releasing the statue

hidden in a block of stone, a figure

that was there all along.

A poem however, doesn’t feel

like it’s always on the page, waiting

to be revealed. The page is always

empty until it is filled.

A poet and the page are like

well accustomed rivals vying

for the affections of the same

lover.

The poet writes the word,

the page judges it,

the poet erases the word

or forces the page to take it.

The page never relaxes its

criticisms, but fights to keep

itself blank and crisp and clean,

unsullied by poetic rambling.

The poet, furrowed brow, can’t

understand why the words are so

lofty and lovely in their head but

so flat and obtuse on the page.

The page needs to be impressed

and smooth talked, complimented and

soothed into accepting the poet’s

need for expression.

There is no stone to chisel away

or paint contoured into a shape

that was already there. The words

have to stick to page’s slippery surface.

The poem lives, breathes,

rides the emotional wave of

each reader’s perspective before

expiring in memory.

It was not there before,

it may not be there after,

it is transitory

and illusive.

Only the page knows if

the words will live or die

in the chests of the poetic

beating hearts.

The poet, unknowing,

persists in hope,

the page will reveal some

tenderness and love it so harshly withholds.