After months of silence, there comes a day
When I feel I can turn anything I wish to say
Into poetry. And they talk so much
About the discipline of being a poet,
Of setting up schedules for practicing the craft.
But look at us vagrants--the muse feeds us too,
And we too manage to scrape by.
So Ezekiel was right.
As it is with love, it must be with poetry:
Wait, wait, wait, and never force the pace.
Years vanish behind one, leaving only the debris
Of so many wasted afternoons with no sympathy,
No relief, no reward. Then the pain
And humiliation of so many rejections; jealousy
And rage over the success of other poets,
And one's own pathetic rationalizations--
He knew so and so, she was lucky--and throughout
The same nagging question: "Am I of any worth?"
But then this also passes and one feels
A lightness, freedom, and confidence,
That comes from having nowhere to go,
No one really to speak to, none to impress.
So, my doors are ever open to you, poetry,
Come when you will: how can I seek you and what for?
Effort destroys poetry as it destroys love.
|Copyright © 2005 - Makarand Paranjape|