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What is it that a poet knows
that tells him-'this is real?'
Some revelation, a gift of sight,
granted through an effort of the mind-
of infinite delight.
All the time I have been writing on the very edge of knowledge,
heard the real world whispering
with an indistinct and liquid rustling-
as if to free, at last, an inextricable meaning!
Sought for words simpler, smoother, more clean than any,
only to clear the air
of an unnecessary obstruction…
Not because I wanted to meddle with the unknown
(I do not believe for a moment that it can be done),
but because the visible world seemed to be waiting,
as it always is,
somehow, to be revealed.
Whoever has once heard that music, in that quiet light,
knows what he has to say, over again and over.
~ Louis Dudek
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