The Poetic Stranger

But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,   
Come, you may stand upon my
Back and face your distant destiny,
But seek no haven in my shadow,
I will give you no hiding place down here.
Maya Angelou, On the Pulse of Morning



I am the worm in the heart that feeds on death
cocooned in the silk of evening tears;
I am the dormant corm deep in the bitter mire
of every deserted battlefield;
I am the black eagle, storm-divided from my mate
flying an uneven course on bent wings;
I am the rocky outcrop above the vale, the vantage
of lonely height, one misstep from the plunge;
I am the poetic stranger you may pass on the street
whose words you’ll never read.

But my mind is open wide to the page of your need;
my eyes have looked upon your death and seen release;
my heart has been dismantled, so that yours may mend;
my body I have consigned to the trenches,
to the grubs’ grim feast,
so that a single creative truth
may emerge from my life’s work
like the carrion butterfly rising from the corpse of history
that knows yet how to fly and shine blue.



In celebration of poetic voice on Maya Angelou's 90th Birthday, and in response to Brendan's theme of Transformation on Day 4 of poetry writing month.