I'll Write

OK, I'll write,
sitting out here on my back porch.
I'll fight

my reluctance,
trying to get my gorge
to settle by writing.

It's alright--
I'm not forcing 
you to read it. I'll write

for my own enjoyment,
even if it's too cold to take my socks off.
I'll join the fight

for no one's attention but
my own. My torch
pen burns to write.

It's always like
this--why life scorches me
with this urge to write,
against which I can't fight.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Lesbia's Sparrow

Sparrow, my darling girl, with whom to play, whom to hold in my bosom, to whom to give the first finger and who is wont to incite with sharp bites, with whom my desire shines I like to joke, I know not what dear (and a little solace for my pain, I believe, so that then the heavy ardor may subside), to play with you as I myself could to relieve the cares of my sad mind! Passer, deliciae meae puellae quicum ludere, quem in sinu tenere, cui primum digitum dare et acris solet incitare morsus, cum desiderio meo nitenti carum nescio quid libet iocari (et solaciolum sui doloris, credo, ut tum gravis adquiescat ardor), tecum ludere sicut ipsa possem et tristis animi levare curas!
Read more

Who Calls the Jammyjams?

So, yesterday the one to whom I've been most charmedly attached answered my question about the jammyjams. And I guess the status quo reigns. But I'll just wait for someone to tell me when to get my fiddle out and bring it to the next jammyjam. So, I won't invite the jammyjammers  to come over for another drink of jamminade, myself. But will I let myself be fetched back to the one who makes my heart ache sore? I surely won't have latched the door! I never learn, do I? I don't even know for sure if I'm still the one who calls the jammyjams.
Read more

Blowing It Out the Swartze Fenster

      You don't understand. I mean, I want to be a great poet ! W.H. Auden       Grazie, Robert Zimmerman. When you're a poet and you know it, nothing will do but to be a great poet . Don't you hope you don't blow it? But that doesn't mean you have to show it to anyone, you ghastly poet! You're a poet and you know it, but you really feel you'd better hide it because being a poet is not for the stout-hearted. You'll probably blow it out your ass, so you'd better revise it over and over again as only the most fastidious poet can (especially when they know it). But you happily forego it-- all the praise and adulation due to a great poet . That's how you'll blow it, you know. by remaining inchoate-- just a nascent, embryonic, shapeless poet (even though you know it). OK then, get your show on the road, you geriatric poet! You were a poet, and you knew it. So blow it, baby, blow it!
Read more