Member Poem

To say I understand poetry would be a lie.
But oh do I love it.
Dark African poems with dark heavy words
that,
if they were to carry odor
would make the air thick with cumin
and rosemary.
Spoken, and then written, from full lips
and dark eyes.
Hard cuticles that pinch the pen tight
tween thick calloused fingers.
Nothing like the smooth ivory instruments that slip over levers.
Pounding away, with ferocity unbeknownst by their delicate construction.
Such is a white the woman's poem,
as equally versed as the African ones,
but with an air of perfume and rose lilly water.
Soft skin and cold hands, on the point of shattering with each word produced.
I personally favor Turkish poetry.
The cold words, seemingly written in lamplight.
With the feeling of kerosine and oil,
strike one match, and the whole paper lights ablaze.
Glimpses of warmth and gasoline.
A whole poem could keep me warm for days.
And looking back, my words are rather stereotypical.
A shallow view of verses and prose deep as ocean trenches,
pressing down in my mind.
I did tell you though that I do know nothing of poetry.
But I'd like to think I know how it feels,
under my hands.
In my lips.
Breathing words like air,
imagining I was there when they were penned.
No. I don't understand it.
Flooding my lungs and clouding my mind.
But God do I love it.