Distribution Automatique

Wednesday, November 5


I can describe no greater pleasure than
to be a poet and neglect writing the poem. To
leave them all implied, unstated,
potential for me is a kind
of rapture. You will think, no doubt
that this is a cover-up
for an impoverished imagination,
and though this could even
be true, it doesn't matter. Because,
with the poem, as with a lover, it is
the intent that counts- because no
single act could ever begin to
convince- but the steady evidence
of *intent* to love finally soothes even
the most delicate and subtle types
of romantic anguish. Yes, it is
because I love the possible poem
and the already existing ones so
much that I proudly announce my
indifference to the one I could try to
create right now, if I wished.
And still the potential poem stays by and
awaits me, torturing me with its
seductive air of complicity, but
its final reluctance to give in to
me completely and passionately, with
its total attention and its generosity
of response. No, this is not to
be not because the poem refuses
me, but because I refuse it. I play
hard to et, giving my complete
atttention to other arts like
music, or visual art, or even
to even-tempered science, which is
so strong, but so
often lacking in poetry's delicacy and charm.
But, then again, with the poem
I know what will happen
soon, no matter what I do.
No matter how I start, whether
i amble by nonchalantly, with
an air of savoir-faire, or
throw myself at it intently
with a look of mildly desperate
hope. A cloud will catch my eye,
moving quickly across a blue horizon,
or a bit of music or a child'
mischievous smile will hit
me head on and I'll be gone.