The poet has no talent.
Can’t sing. Can’t dance. Cannot play a musical instrument. Can’t juggle. Can’t paint.
The poet has only words.
And so the poet uses words to sing, to dance, to make music—and other sounds.
Juggles with words.
Paints with words.
Creates motion, odors, tastes, physical sensations of all sorts.
Unlocks our memories. Makes us aware of what we have previously sensed only dimly.
Makes us wonder . . . about so many things.
All of this with words alone.
For the poet, alas, has no talent.