Archive
12/18/10 - (2)
Slate
Though the slate I start with is made of paper, It's still a daunting tabula rasa, for its blankness. Something about staring into the gaping jaws of an alligator, The wide-spread fang-fitted rictus of a spitting viper, The shrieking depths of Dante's Hell, Milton's epic Chaos, Makes a poet cringe, quake, shudder with utter horror, Facing the stark possibility of aesthetic death, Each time he tries to create, from gossamer nonexistence, Something of lyrical consequence Approximating God's sublime design for the cosmos, Which, necessarily, he must be compelled to attempt, If for no other rhyme, reason, inspiration, artistic mandate Than that he believes himself and, by implication, his images To be shaped in the image of his Maker.
And so, when I stare into the cold, foreboding, desolate abyss, I gasp, in sheer fear, knowing my demise is nearer than nigh And that dying, compared with not experiencing insight — Locating an ineffable closure to one of my poems — Would be far more preferable, were I accorded the choice. Yet, it's then, in those harrowing moments of naked anxiety, When the impotency and infertility of my verse surface, That I realize how lucky, privileged, blessed I am, To have been given the chance to prove my fortitude, faith, Strive for literary truth, no matter the downsides of failure, To rise in the eyes of the One greater than I'll ever be, From whom all creativity comes, to whom all praises are due, He whose face I see in the blank slate — The undefiled whiteness of my notebook's next page.
12/18/10 - (2)
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