I stand at the edge, on the margins, watching the flood,
so close to the torrent, yet apart from the flow.
There, where I’ve always stood on the margins,
the rush beckons me, urges me to lunge.
I could fall at any moment or I could jump.
Just cut the cord keeping me on the margins.
But on the margins, I’m safe from the mainstream,
there’s no danger of drowning in a withering tide.
Still, waves in the current invite me to leave my place
on the margins, to gently enter the allure of the channel.
It may be bravery or it may be fear that keeps me here.
I won’t be swept into the stream; I’ll stay on the margins.
What is a poet? An unhappy person who conceals profound anguish in his heart but whose lips are so formed that as sighs and cries pass over them they sound like beautiful music.
~ Søren Kierkegaard
What is an unhappy person? A poet who conceals profound anguish in his heart but whose lips are so formed that as sighs and cries pass over them they sound like wounded buffalo.
~ John Swinburn