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05/29/09 - (1)
Pace
Some gestate a solitary haunting idea For the time it takes a mother to bring a child to term; Others require a month or more Just to screw up the courage Requisite to setting down first lines, to paper.
I've never been daunted by spontaneity's beck, Intimidated that words would elude my imagination Or that I'd not measure up to creating, from scratch, Sui generis free-verse masterpieces That capture the world between one cap and one period.
In fact, I've never been afflicted with writer's block. Indeed, critics and condescending readers Have frequently held me in contempt, for penning too much, Suffering from digressiveness and prolixity, Relying on polysyllabic vocabulary to carry it off.
Since shaping the manifestations of my lifelong enlightenment, I've been self-absorbed, monumentally obsessed. My thinking, though focused on making individual poems, Has been devoted to shaping books, to contain them — My extended view on immortality.
To those who compose either a word or a page at a time, I can only offer this small sagacity: Though quality and quantity might not equate, Neither do they negate the truth that the mind unwinds — Regardless of what we think, say, scribble, do — at its own pace.
05/29/09 - (1)
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