From the Calabash
The blue teacup does not want to be silent about where it came from. You know how things are. Do not give up on curiosity. Put your hands in for a new fable; for new hair. Musing about the work force is the premise behind the trapeze. Ahead of suasions, bitterness proves to be cubical. Ways into poetry's erectures. These creditors showing interest in my assets. Got tickets to see cars fly while the morning eats bread out of my hand. I ask a bald man: do you miss your hair? Some kinds of poems come to you at a certain moment in your life to move you in a particular direction or to the next level.
To see life only in literary and symbolic terms would be a cop out. Will the old house shelter us properly? No shortcuts to rhyme. I see you moving around the attic: a walking puzzle. Tea is conducive to vision and today's spur is a strong one. The lightest touch stirs the flower, the tree, the water. I try to understand the ways of a flock of birds. Ingénue, pinnacled, tentacled. Stare down the arrogant demands and claims of newspapers, blogs, magazines, television, tweets. Questions wrack a temperate zone. There are arcades to traverse. The poet is on a gambol.
Read the full essay on the Poetry Foundation website.
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