A Poem About The Poem

April 14, 2013

This is a poem about

the poem I could not write.


At first I asked my heart

what it wanted to say,

but I had reached a place

where there were no words

in a language other than blood.


I searched my brain

but only found there

ideas too small or words too big,

each trying way too hard

to sound like my poem.


I went downstairs to

the dusty cardboard boxes

where the past lurked silently,

the relics of my life

casting sixty year shadows.


I sensed my emotions

rise like the mist

of early autumn mornings,

memories appearing,

obscured images in the haze.


Oops. Brain again.

Well, if it’s any consolation,

I am shut inside, alone,

though it is much too light to be poetic

sitting at a small table scribbling lies.


Maybe I should call

Billy Collins.


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