And in the land where happiness is banned
They tried to wipe out beauty.
The burnt the musicians on pyres of their own instruments,
Cut off the legs of the dancers and the hands of the artists;
They cut out the tongues of those who told stories,
And electrocuted the brains of writers
Until words no longer filled their now empty heads.
Then they rounded up the most dangerous of all –
Those who distilled the essence –
Those who found the metre to exaggerate the feeling
And convey the emotion;
Those who used rhythm and rhyme
To tease minds and ears into ecstasy and understanding.
These they nailed to the huge tree to slowly dry in the sun.
Laughingly they called it the poet tree.
But poetry still lived.
To be creative one must be brave.
To be a poet you must sacrifice.
The poets’ very lives and deaths were poems.
Their life force entered the poet tree
So every leaf and flower
Shone with the essence of life
For that is poetry –
And poetry lives in the very breath of the planet
And can never be destroyed.
Words are dangerous things. They contain ideas and ideas can rouse the passions. Words can bring down governments, start revolutions and change the world.
Poetry is the distilled essence.
Poetry touches the soul.
Poetry is the most dangerous weapon of all.
The greatest poem is the beauty of the planet, the spectrum of nature and the wonder of the universe.
We have the eyes to see it and the consciousness with which to marvel. That is poetry to me.