Poetry is not a puzzle whose pieces are to be glued together, or a
mystery where every line is clue after clue leading to the identity of
the villain or reason for madness.
Nor is Poetry clothes for you to wear, shirt; neckties, skirts, or
caps to suit the mood of the season, or perhaps or your own.
Poetry has a face and a name; it is not for adoption or distortion.
Poetry is movement, and the blow against silence is not open to any
interpretations.
My father told me that the best poet is the humble baker, the bread
maker who mixes flour, yeast and water into dough, feeds the dough
into the belly of the oven until pale dough is transformed by the
heat, and comes out sweet, warm, brown fresh bread.
Poets should also be thus: bake poetry and not illusions or mysteries
or puzzle.
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