Anne Clinard Barnhill

I’m think­ing about poetry tonight–the way it can cut, razor its way through the heart, cause tears to bulge at the cor­ners of my eyes, shock my sys­tem with words, words and more words.  Thank good­ness for poems that tear words from us and patch them back together with a heal­ing balm.  I wish I were a true poet, one who could shake the bones of the prophets with my rhythm, rock­ing them into new visions.  But since I’m not one of these, I can read what oth­ers write and enjoy it, believ­ing as I read, I become more deeply human.

If there is heal­ing in this world, there is heal­ing in poetry.