The desert of time between each poem, each insight, each plateau of understanding.
The steps towards the poem feel like small epiphanies,
but are not yet the poem; brief shimmers of hope the
poem may still come, while the weary shadowy downpour of doubts continue to dog my path.
Silence encourages me; no discontinuance, no refusal, no
critique, no patronizing, no flattery, no false hope.
The failure to conceive the line captivates me; its remoteness, its beckoning closeness reveals a seductive
movement that stirs me, awakens me, stimulates me;
trapped, frozen, eluded on the verge of something endless, I am wholly alert; ready to pounce.
Is it that the possible, even the improbable but still conceivable, at the moment of composition, offers possibilities so much more appealing than the immediate data of experience- the sensible material for the poem? Is this the appeal of the poetry of place, for example, or the poetry of time:
-I wanted to say it is ok
the dark sky is the way
it is anyway. Night
keeps its own counsel,
muttering to itself in the form
of shapes and shadows.-
Is this the attraction of the poetry of thought; i.e.
-the struggle for the poem is the poetry-or
-it is enchanting to have the time to think-?
Oh, how I miss the idea of pure poetry, I miss it
but I do not want it back; the same way I miss
the poetry of pure words, the poetry of pure
thought, the poetry of pure detail,
the poetry of pure meditation, the poetry of pure revolution,
the poetry of pure nonsense; will I never learn to
miss (let go of) the poetry of poetry, the
poetry of the thought of poetry,
that still continues to beckon, almost
like the surprisingly shocking, patient weave of dawn?