I have tried
for some time to write poetry. I have looked carefully at the world around me and
have considered my words. I have tried to reach some unknown reader.
Then the
other day, I was walking back from the river. The air was cool. The sky was a late
afternoon blue. There was a thin scattering of clouds like fish scales and I
thought ...
... and then
I stopped thinking that thought.
All this
time think that I had failed to understand. Being a poet has almost nothing to do with the
unknown reader. To be a poet, I should write words, nothing more and nothing
less. My subject might be banal, my metaphors lacking, my words ill-crafted – my
poems might not make any sense to anyone else in the whole world whatsoever –
and be clunky.
Or maybe,
just maybe, my poems might be good. Who’s to say? To be a poet, I think that I
should just forget about all that.
And so I
finally crossed over.
Here’s one
of my poems. I didn’t write it for you, but you can read it or not.
I was
walking back from the river.
The air was
cool.
The sky was a
late afternoon blue.
I saw clouds
like fish scales –
and then I
knew I would never find the words
to say what
I wanted to say.
I miss you.
