It has been said that

Writing a poem is an endeavor

To be taken on

By giants.

Giants write poems because

They have to, because

No one else can or is able 

To write a poem,

As all-encompassing,

As massive an endeavor

It is to write a poem.

For the page stares up 

At the author; it stares up 

At the poet, and it  t a u n t s

Them with the   s h e e r

Magnitude of its            b  l  a  n  k                       s   p   a   c   e  ,

So that it requires a giant

To take hold of the                  w      i      d      e       –

Ranging landscape

And form it until

It takes shape

In the image of its creator—

The giant—who, with

Large hands and a wide-

Open mind,

Sculpts a body or a soul,

With flesh and blood—

Of fire, to ignite the page and 

Light up the soul of the reader.

The poet’s hands must be

Sizable enough to the task,

Hemming in the   e  d  g  e  s   of 

The territory of the terrain

Of the page on which lies

The blank    e    m    p    t    y    space as   tyrannical

As an over-bearing  mother-in-law.

The poet’s hands must be

Skillful enough to the task,

Molding the surface

Of the page, taming the wild

And wide-open terrain

Of the page into

Their own

Image.

Therefore, only giants

Can write poetry

Or mold a page

Into a poem,

With a body and soul

Of fire,

To ignite the reader

With the breath

Of life,

And so   s  h  a  p  e    the reader

Into their own

Image.