Thursday, October 5, 2017

The Poem I Can't Write Version 2




This is the poem I can't write.
This is the tuning fork, the bells cast of Himalayan metal
the one good note sounding on a 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,
sing the endless glory of the universe?
Who would confer such a gift upon me?
Writing this poem would be like receiving  a robe
of the finest silk,
a garment grave and sweet
as the speech at my father's funeral
when a thousand pipes
wail across the valley where 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 by the grip of my own electricity, charging and burning my hands
and 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.





























5 comments:

  1. Write Out of My Head by Art Rosch has been included in our A Sunday Drive for this week. Be assured that we hope this helps to point even more new visitors in your direction.

    http://asthecrackerheadcrumbles.blogspot.com/2016/01/a-sunday-drive.html

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  2. Thanks, Jerry. I've been invaded by a spammer from Kolkata. I appreciate being mentioned in your blog.

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  3. You can't and yet you did, and Art, this has to be one of the most moving poems I've read this year. To say the Universe in all her majesty is too magnificent for the smallness of you to embrace, and still you must stretch toward it because you cannot be a part of that majesty without working from the source of your separateness from it. And I can't get closer to the meaning of your poem unless I simply read it back to you. Isn't that the definition of a Great work of Art?

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