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If you want to know what I think of you,
You’ll have to wait for my poem.
I admit I thought I knew you
By everything you did to me.
Poets, who in their poems, use actions and imagery
In competition with real actions and imagery, fly too close to the sun.
I just talk, and in the dark, with a syllable or two, it’s done.
Everyone needs to leave home.
My solid, middle class mother spoiled me.
I found my independence writing poetry.
I cannot write poems on my family—
Mawkish, inflamed, terrible.
I compete with strangers, those dead poets, who are beautiful.
The world let them write their exiled, passionate verse,
And since I am passionate and strange, I can do no worse.
Poetry is a selfish escape.
Practice letters, practice emotions, you old-fashioned ape.
Poetry formed my hope, and I left my comfortable home.
Poetry gave me the silly confidence to find you.
Now an unkind look from you
Is worth all the critics in Greece, and all the poets in Rome.
Your judgment fills me with sweet dread.
What are you thinking?
A poem is a stone, a statue,
But life is always bubbling and blinking.
And now what are you thinking?
Oh Muses! I wish I knew.
