"The sounds I had heard after the scream..." ~ Jane Eyre

With all due respect, there can be nothing mute about poetry. I have a deep sense of the figurative, but I chose to take this week literally.

Stanzas aside, the power of poetry gives those who are not poets a voice - a voice that comes deep from the soul and is incapable of being silent. To place poetry in a two dimensional form seems irreverent, and I find myself unable to do so. Poetry is a religion to me, and always shall be. Silence of it is sacrilege.

For I believe there is nothing as loud to an ear as poetry and nothing as verbose to a soul as a poem. Poetry is food, dear readers, so open up your mouth wide. This entire week here on this blog will be shouting out the glory of poems, because I cannot find it in my soul to make it mute.

Eating Poetry
by Mark Strand
Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.I have been eating poetry.
The librarian does not believe what she sees.
Her eyes are sad
and she walks with her hands in her dress.
The poems are gone.
The light is dim.
The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.
Their eyeballs roll,their blond legs bum like brush.
The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.
She does not understand.
When I get on my knees and lick her hand, she screams.
I am a new man.I snarl at her and bark.
I romp with joy in the bookish dark.