Poets are like

Poets are like
metaphors, trying to be similes. They hold
something back, and something
in store. An idea of language in mind,

which they rarely use; an ideal

they rarely attempt to test or prove,

But when they do:
they try to form thoughts
into words, with a mind so focused
that no words appear at all
- except necessary ones.

The right word - not its stranger sibling,
as perfect as effort can make it,
nothing to strike,
and nothing missing.
All that's there, combined
and working together,
aligned to fit: one purpose

(whatever it is; the poem’s)

to justify truth into meaning
by minimum means necessary,
to a maximum of intended truth, and yes,
effect too. In general,

poets these days eschew

limits, except
to explore, fruitfully enjoying
the ins and outs of a bright line held lightly,
or employed more seriously, held in place
to add pleasing structure. And so

sometimes, or
even oftener,

Poets don’t rhyme.

But sometimes they rhyme. No limits?
Why not then? They’ll use a scheme
as a stunt, a flourish,
with meter to drive the beat home
to a satisfying finish,

syllables running through
in even array, or stop-start
choppily strewn awry,

all a technique to emphasize,
to counterpoint, or to magnify
effect, and meaning, and whatever else
the poet has handy to show or imply.

A poem

is an example of language distilled
to specific purpose, using any
of several unnatural means
to lull us into its dream logic,

to learn and feel whatever the poet
is trying to be, or prove, or feel
themselves, that day. By an art

more artifice than otherwise,
the poet attempts the natural,
by sneaking in under it, usually.
And often - some say, too often,

in an act far more sloppily, lazily done
than focus or discipline well describe.
More exuberant play than a focused work, or

- maybe that’s just the effect conveyed
and contrived? Which would then be deliberate!

And if so, deserved. Earned. For whatever
it’s worth: when it works,

all in tune (so the poet hopes)
with intent, and all their effects
pulled together, and meaning

- nothing at all? Maybe. Or
something worthwhile, perhaps.

When it’s over, you wake
safe at home, and
you shake your head, and
decide (maybe not) to smile.

That's about all the poet hopes.
A lapse of some moments, to sink
in a world, composed of words,

in which you might spot something
worth taking with you, into the air,
clumsily, like a fledgling bird

or elegantly, like the sophisticated
reader of poetry that you clearly are.

You won't be shaking, reduced
to emotional states they have expertly
crafted and given to you, to become.

That can happen, true! But it's not
something poets expect to pull off,
or get away with, as a rule,
To change someone