Russian poet Yevgeny Yevtushenko said, “A poet’s autobiography is his poetry. Anything else is just a footnote.”
there Love defined
a curious day ’twas today
that found desire and drive allayed!
the earth lay washed in amber tones,
the air hung thick, heavy with storm
and as men oft do in such times
i gazed into the cloudy sky
to calculate the mystery
of life, death, and eternity
and as i mused the mystery
i saw an angel by the tree
“why do you look for answers here?
seek Love,” he said, and disappeared
set out, did i, to find such Love,
yet tales and myth were not enough
as dross, i flung what i had found,
resolved that Love was not around
i scoffed the fable men did trust
while bastioned doubt became my trust.
fierce nimbus bore above my walls
and rain so sinister did fall;
high did the water rise before
i found my circumstances poor;
so feebly struggled i against
the overwhelming current spent
then certain of my wretched fate,
i ceased, to let death have its way,
when through the murky waters cut
a hand that reached beyond my heart
into a place unknown and cold,
lifted me up beyond the flood.
and suddenly i found there land
there bathed in warm and piercing sun
where touched the hand, there burned a flame
so searing and beyond known pain
yet pleasant was it all the while,
and coursing joy replaced the vile
a wondrous sight my eyes beheld
a sight too beautiful to tell
a peace unknown o’ertook my mind
for there it was, there Love defined
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