Quite often, later in the day, I’m apt to think of something I’d like to write about the following morning. In some cases, the urge is strong enough that I’m tempted to begin right away. But I rarely do. First, I’d rather wait and see if the following morning does come. If it does, and I’m blessed with that bit of good fortune, I make coffee and read Spanish for half an hour or so. Then I sit down here and give myself the pleasure of looking at a blank page. If the previous day’s idea returns, I look at it again, it looks at me, and we speak quietly to one another as young lovers or old friends. When we have both forgotten our names, one or the other of us notices the whiteness of the page, and the snowy absence of metaphor. By then, if we are really lucky, the idea has flown away.
This morning the crows
are in an uproar; I switch
from blue ink to black.
Poems, Slightly Used, June 26, 2009
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Categories: Poems, Slightly Used