!DOCTYPE html> html> head lang=”en-US”> title>The Man That Poetry Made by Aberjhani/title> /div> h1 class=”pageTitle”>The Man That Poetry Made/h1> div class=”entry-content clearfix”> h2 itemprop=”author” class=”author”>by Aberjhani/h2> div itemprop=”genre” id=”content”> p>The man that poetry made stands luminousbr /> on the broken corners of history’s suicidal cravings,br /> he watches splashing in the streetbr /> birds cleaning their feathers insidebr /> the crystal flow of words he gave them,/p> p>he is a vintage wine nowbr /> traveling with ease over the tonguesbr /> of other people’s intentions,br /> he is a quiltbr /> made of one billion black handsbr /> spread like guarantees from a single living Godbr /> over the heads of the misbegotten./p> p>The man that poetry made wondersbr /> on which day will he finally recite his soul.br /> Ask him who his mother isbr /> and he will sing for you memoriesbr /> of bosom-heavy haikusbr /> filling his mouth with the milk and nectarbr /> of joy neverdying.br /> Ask about his fatherbr /> and he will boast about a balladbr /> that thundered all the waybr /> from Spain to Zairebr /> bouncing him like a sack full of sonnetsbr /> upon his broad whistling shoulders./p> p>This man that poetry made stumbles barefootbr /> through the city, a huge blue ribbon wrappedbr /> around one big toe, a small pink one tiedbr /> to the other, ragged jeans loosebr /> upon free-verse hips, fluorescent eyes blinkingbr /> surrealistic kisses of negritude revisited–/p> p>To the woman confusedbr /> by his lust for peacebr /> he begs “forgive me lovely geniusbr /> I was not born as you were born,br /> my blood was writtenbr /> by a different kind of coupling.”br /> To the man frustratedbr /> by his lack of animaliabr /> he sang, “Beauty is a thing finerbr /> than exalted fears of actual love.”/p> p>The man that poetry made sometimesbr /> blows himself to pieces with bombsbr /> made from metaphors, he enjoys watchingbr /> the words that shape his lifebr /> scatter like golden ashes of imaginationbr /> then one by one float back down to earthbr /> covering him with forms and meaningsbr /> he never knew existed.br /> People passing the cornerbr /> where he stands luminous and throbbingbr /> rarely see a man at all.br /> They look at the man that poetry madebr /> and see a public toiletbr /> or a burning bush flaming in the most unlikely place.br /> Sometimes they see him as a rare jewelbr /> and snatch him up before anyone elsebr /> can look. He is always curious riding alongbr /> inside the pockets of strangersbr /> wondering how they shall reactbr /> when they see him for what he is,br /> and he reveals, withbr /> love lighting up his every cellbr /> exactly who they are./p> br> /body> /html>
