The best place to write poetry
Isn’t in your head; the poetry
Is written by your head in a place,
Full of distraction, full of the bored face,
Those faces that have nothing to do with you.
The dull life you cannot love. But do.
Poetry longs to be somewhere else.
Poetry is for them. Not you, or myself.
Quiet inspiration, the kind
Wordsworth thought necessary, the mind
Recalling, passively, wars in the past,
Bleeding sunsets, love that didn’t last,
Is here in these whispering voices,
As I, in my seat, in café or train,
Feel both at once—other people feel
And speak the hints any good poems needs.
Life is hungry. Right here. The Muse feeds.