I Do Not Call Myself a Poet

I do not call myself
    a poet.
Hafiz said
“The poet is someone
who can pour light into a cup,
then raise it to nourish
your beautiful parched holy mouth.”
And Kierkegaard said
“What is a poet? An unhappy man
who hides deep anguish in his heart,
but whose lips are formed that
when the sigh and the cry pass through
them, it sounds like lovely music…
And people flock around the poet and
say ‘sing again soon’ - that is ‘may
new sufferings torment your soul but
your lips be fashioned as before, for
the cry would only frighten us, but the
music, that is blissful.’”
I can lay no claim
to the first.
I can see more of myself
in the second,
but I cannot find the words
“lovely” or “blissful”.
No.
I am a madman.
A madman
with a pen
and a scrap of paper,
scribbling furiously,
to try to keep up
with the tempest
that is my mind.
And now I’m thinking
about Doctor Who
(the madman with the box),
which isn’t really all
that surprising as I often
find myself thinking
about Doctor Who.
Though not that much
about Doctor What
or Doctor Where.
No.
I am no poet.
And I am no Doctor.
I am content
with my paper
and my pen
and my tempest.
And to share my madness
with anyone
that will listen.