We Are All Secret Poets

I was told poetry was dead. It only lives in classrooms and mutates into song lyrics in order to survive. Byron, Neruda, Donne, Pushkin, Dario are names of the past and people are hard-pressed to name 5 contemporary poets. The poetry sections of bookstores go unvisited, and collections of poems go unread, remain unbought. Making a living from being a poet is laughable and more, well, like living on air.

It might be true that poetry's golden era has passed. But I have a friend who writes poems to make her tears go away. I know a sailor who sits on the deck of his ship to write some lines and watch the sunset. I have a notebook of poems sent to me so I could get to know the author better. I know a friend who translated his poem so he could hear its rhythm in another language.

We are all secret poets and for a dead art, poetry is doing pretty well. We use poetry to fill those niches that prose never could. We are called to its cadence, its emotive mourning for the words that are absent.

Yes, we are all secret poets and even I dabble once in a while...

Oda al Césped

Es verde indeleble.
Por el sol mojado,
por el sol secado;
escrito en sus briznas
el pasar del tiempo;
Indeleble.

Es verde taciturno.
De la tierra crece,
a la tierra esconde;
con raíces mudas
la vida sostiene,
Taciturno.

Indeleble césped,
Césped taciturno
taciturno e indeleble,
respira y calla.

Oda

Tener en cada latido una sonrisa
Y mirar al viento y dejarla escapar.
Son tuyos, son tuyos, me dice,
Los mil momentos que pasamos juntos.

El mar arrastra la voz de perlas
Y mi poema se esconde entre las palabras.