Archive
10/08/08 - (2)
Millions of Words
What drew me to poetry, at the awakening of my spirit, Yet remains, after forty-five years Of the most amazingly propulsive, protean creativity,
A mystery of the most Biblical intimacy, A bafflement of such Byzantine intricacy, Not even the mosaics in Venice's Basilica de San Marco
Could possibly compete with the complexity of my inspiration, Let alone begin to explain Just why it is that, after almost half a century,
I'm still trying, feverishly, frenziedly, frantically, fervently, To fathom what generative divinity Stimulated my psyche to pursue a life of the mind,
Still hoping to find what blind force, essence, Guided my undefined youthful years To seek some purposive, meaningful reason for being alive.
Now, tonight, four-and-a-half-decades Since I composed my first poem, in March 1963, I'm yet trying to understand the numinous nature of my calling,
Still pursuing its elusive identity. Perhaps all of the impassioned, grasping, splattered words Owe their existence to my very longing, craving,
Desperation to distill, from the silence, some voice Telling me why it's taken millions of them just to say, "I don't know. I don't know. I don't know."
10/08/08 - (2)
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