"How Poems are Made"
Driving to poetry reading,
rising up out of the river valley
past tall pines, and dark woods,
I think of something that would make
a brilliant poem.
It’s one of those flashes – a small opening
into holiness.
I recognize the idea for what it is.
But there’s no place to pull over.
The road is a narrow, slow curve.
I’m smoking a cigar.
The window at half-mast.
Twenty-two below Celsius slapping my face.
I acknowledge the poetic potential of this idea
It really is a great idea.
Well, it would have been a great idea if
I could have remembered it the next day.
I didn’t even pretend to try to remember.
Trusted I would remember.
But I didn’t.
The only thing in my poetic waiting room is this:
Life is not about being loved, adored, admired, lusted after…
It’s not about the love coming your way, it’s about the love you
export.
It’s about who you love, and how well you love.
That’s it.
But that’s not a poem. That’s not even profound.
The Tao, the Bible, a myriad of self-help books say this
better.
But then, this realization is not floating on the surface of my
skin
Somehow, in the past week, this idea on love got deep inside
of me.