The Innisfree Poetry Journal

www.innisfreepoetry.org

by Cliff Bernier

IT WAS SO COLD I HAD TO BURN MY POETRY TO SURVIVE

I had no other fuel—

snow fell in sheets.

I lit my Title Page,

incinerating my theme.

Twigs wouldn’t take;

I ignited Acknowledgements,

searing assurance.

Copyright, Table of Contents—

identity and structure—

up in smoke.

To fan the blaze

I fed my notes, diffusing history.

I was cold. Desperately,

I torched my poems, one by one,

oxidizing substance.

When I had fried my last poem

night fell, I was freezing.

Frantically, I wrote,

on leaves, on bark, on my clothes.

Long poems, short poems,

metaphysical couplets—quickly consumed—

sonnets that burned hot and slow.

I was naked. Day broke.