It is the duty of the old poet
To teach about living a life of poetry
To the young poets.

First, find a young poet.
There aren’t very many,
Although there are thousands
Who stand up on stages
And hurl swear words.
Some of it is actually poetic.

But a poet soon learns that rage
Is a shallow pool.
It feels great,
All fire and invective,
But those poems are largely disposable.

Hate, likewise, has its appeal.
And, likewise, often has a short shelf life.

But the lasting poems
Dig through the anger of a life
And the living.
It excavates all the hate
And drills down into the pain;
The despair.

There is lots of hate,
Probably more anger.
And those are fine stones
Upon which to whet your craft.

Poetry craves,
Not just the poetic utterance,
But the poetic silence as well.
Without the silence,
It is the clacking of the keyboard.
Without Death’s utter refusal
To answer the questions,
There is no need for poems.