What kind of a poet is he, they ask.
I said: “I am a poet of earth and space,
possibly water, but not fire. I know
my limitations, and there are many things
between earth and sky I cannot name.
I have an ancient desire for understanding,
meaninglessness frightens me.
That is why I love simple things
such as sunlight on our shoulders,
or women with firm breasts
and hills quiet in the rain.”
They whispered among themselves:
“How come his poetry is riddled with bullets then?”
So I said:
“I wanted my poems to exude a heady odour
but only the sweet taint of blood
or burning flesh emanates from my poem.”
Then they said:
“His poems are always falling from arrogant heights.”
I answered:
“I’ve always wanted to see them fall
like leaves which turn beautiful before they die.”
But they said:
“When they fall his poems would shatter
because he drops them on stony ground.”
I only said:
“I wanted them to fall like pebbles
into a pool. I’m sorry I always break
my words on hostile surfaces.”
Finally they said:
“That is why his poetry is guarded.
He courts death and freedom but his words
need protection by an armed escort.
He could not speak and allowed
muteness to bind his heart.
This is the origin of his fear.”