The Soul of Poetry

A persnickety painter caresses his grand canvas with

care, pain, and power; every stroke, every color, chosen by heart –

they represent soul.

And what a soul! The human soul! The only soul

that can pour care, pain, and power into art!

Care, pain, and power –

these gifts are divinely ours!

And pour as we might, we still overflow

(our souls still ache) with care, pain, and power.

What a soul, the human soul.

Irrepressible joy, crippling agony – it is all ours!

We are filled, and we pour out,

we are filled, and we pour out

our care, pain, and power.

What a soul – the human soul.

We can pour like the painter with his blissful, bleeding brush;

we might leak tears on our cheeks if we’re in a rush.

But from birth, we hear, feel, and learn that it is these – words! –

which most powerfully pour human care, pain, and power into art.

What a soul! The human soul.

And so, I sit and pour out for you, in the best way I know how to do,

the care, pain, and power of my human soul.

It is this divine act, this sweetly sour deed,

that gives my soul the release it always seems to need.

What a soul! My human soul: a soul of poetry.

What a soul, the human soul – the soul of poetry.