The Hidden Shapes of a Poet's Self
Veil and Light
I carve a space both bare and full
An altar for truths I have sealed away
A hiding place for who I am
When shadows slope toward evening
My voice slips between lines
A shadow cast by late-night hours
Worn like an old coat in rain
Words become the armor and the cloak
A dance that both obscures and reveals
There is a mask I show to strangers
Careful not to stir the deeper fires
That tether me to places remembered
Only in the silence of my hands
They carry more than stories
They bear the marks of all I have been unwilling
To show at full blaze
Sometimes I dwell in that unseen room
Where thoughts crowd like restless guests
And the poems rise from that gathering
As if called forth by a voice
Contained within my own body
I am made from the halves I hide
The self that meets the world today
And the self that blooms inside these walls
Wild and unruly uninvited
Where my truest lines take shape
The page is both veil and light
A place where I gather fragments turned whole
Where the mask I wear shades into something
Deeper than mere appearance
Something I am still finding
Words enough to hold
About the Creator
Tim Carmichael
Tim is an Appalachian poet and cookbook author. He writes about rural life, family, and the places he grew up around. His poetry and essays have appeared in Bloodroot and Coal Dust, his latest book.
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Comments (2)
Well done! Definitely feel that push and pull
Well-wrought! "Where thoughts crowd like restless guests" Such an apt simile!