Fresh Meadow Poets

On Saturdays the poets meet
And talk about the inner life,
How poetry reflects
With an economy of words
The clarity of substance
Buried deep in opaque depths,
Phantomlike, vague,
Unseen, but somehow sensed
In spiritual, mystic ways,
Its essence cleared by the poet's gift
To grasp the fundamental truth,
Project it on the screen of consciousness
In words to bare the soul
And make you understand
That beyond vanity and shame,
The quagmire of daily experience,
The shabbiness and uncertainty
Lie fundamental truths and beauty
Within the flaming smithy of the soul...

Alfred Charasz
Copyright 2007 Alfred Charasz