There is nothing to compare with the pleasure of allowing poems ot meet me halfway. "Allowing" is actually a funny word for what is really happening, since I long ago realized there is simply no other choice. Like a lover, they come when they want, or not at all. Of course, "not at all" would be a far more serious situation If it were really "not at all" in the long term sense. There have been times, I must admit, when the poem came knocking at my door and the headphones of life were blasting away in my ears and I didn't even know the poem was there. Still, if the truth be known, there have even been times when the poem stared imploringly into my eyes. silent, hinting balefully of the words it wanted to say to me -and me, looking it straight back in the eyes, my mind completely somewhere else, so much so that we never really made eye contact, or soul contact. And, of course, because of this perhaps, and maybe just anyway, the many times, the many, many times I sat longingly waiting for the poem, remembering the times I've spent with it before, when we were really getting something on...but now, that rarely happens because I would hardly think of doing such a thing. The poem and I have made a truce, and we have an understanding with each other. It's better that way. And now, when we get together it's because we both really want to.
(12/28/93)