Sept 22, 2015
The Poem I Can't Write
This is the poem that I can't write.
This is the tuning fork, the bells cast of Himalayan metal
the one good note sounded on the broken piano.
Where is it? Why can't I write it?
It's just too beautiful. Who would trust
someone like me to utter the dreadful exquisite,
the endless glory of the universe; who would
confer such a gift upon me?
No one would drift upon my head
a net made of the finest weave, strands of strongest silk
bands of fearless brass, lines of noble metal
radioactively gorgeous, so grave and sweet as to be
the speech at my father's funeral, the lament of a thousand pipes
wailing across the valley where the trees dip in the wind.
This is the poem I will write, whether or not I am worthy.
Only I can stop me and I will not stop me, can not let go of the current,
trapped in the grip of my own electricity, charging and burning my hands because I don't care. I am simply too small.
I am the poetic mouse who survives beneath the floorboards
while a world clatters above me.
I am the poem I have written.