Archive
05/11/09 - (2)
How It Goes
How is it, this exquisite, mildly breezy Monday night, Sitting outside, on the patio of this midcity bistro, That I'm at a loss, as always, to speak the ineffable,
Compose that which can't be captured, even in free verse — The rapturing passion imagination desires to express, When it descends, entranced, into its unmapped fathoms?
Could it be that I'm yet too much of this evolving world, Not enough at peace with the silent recesses of my psyche, To close the vast divide between tonight and eternity?
Or is it infinitely less complex — That I'm afflicted, and have been since birth, With an excess of the stuff that wreaks chaos on dreams,
Renders people susceptible to the rigors of discipline's enemy, Those demons that force them, under threat of death, To confess insecurities, dread fear of failure?
No. It's not quite that simply explained away, either. Finally, I believe that the problem lies in telling the truth, Sizing up the lies and reading them the riot act,
Getting to the heart of the sublime, without artifice. I realize that the poet in me already knows how it goes: Whatever I compose, now and on all my tomorrows, suffices,
Because this is all I have to contribute to the world; Everything else, all the rest, is detritus. The verse I create perpetuates my purpose in the universe.
05/11/09 - (2)
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