Do you love the sound
Of your own voice
So much
That you read what you've written
And you're happy with your choice
Of words? Why?
So do I.
Are your spirits lifted,
Elated and light,
When the words you have sifted
Settle into the bread of your head
And fresh from the printer
You take them to your mother
Whose eyes swim in tears
As she speaks aloud
The noise from your pen
And says over and over again
You should publish or perish
So the world will undoubtedly know
She birthed a poet true?
Me, too!
Do you paint only when you're in the mood,
But you write, no matter what
Because you have to
Get the syllables and sound
Out of your head and onto paper instead
Of going to the gym
Or keeping appointments
Or praying to God
(Because who can talk to our Creator
When our egos are puffed up
With our own scribbles?)
I can't quibble
With
That.
Do you take your so-called gift
And let it hang, unshored
By the works of others
And knowledge in books
Because you believe
That too many cooks
Can spoil the broth
Of the consciousness stream
You're compelled to put forth
So witty and urbane?
You and I, then,
Are the same.
Do you
Rip your newborn work
From your constant companion,
Your notebook, your friend,
And type it into that box in your kitchen
Where you're supposed to be cooking or cleaning
Or bill-paying, but you live in front of
The cold screen, percolating
Over rhyme or reason
Or a phrase falling flat?
Me, too! I do that.
Does your printer spit out your children,
And you then bind them into folders to foist upon acquaintances
Who sigh and never
Speak of it again?
Yes, that's me, my friend.
Are you a little sad when it's all over,
Deflated, spent, used up
Realizing you missed yoga
You stretch your sore neck alone
Because you stayed home -
And for what? Yeah.
I feel like that a lot.
And in the end,
What have you got?
A folder filled to burtsing
And a vast group of people
Who avoid you
And an ever-expanding
Waist land made up of
The vanity of poetry.
When your husband comes home
And he says, "How was your day?"
And you answer, "I wrote."
And he says, "Fine. Where's supper?"
And you sigh and order take out
And watch T. V.
Staring as actors act words written by others
While corporations sell sex in cereal boxes of consumption
And you feel misunderstood
And unfed?
Remember, your mother loves you.
And if yours doesn't,
You can borrow mine.
She comes with my folder, though,
So there's no escaping my passion pen
Because, after all, I do love the sound of my own voice.
I do.
You too?
