Bare of knowledge, is this how to live?
So what about that stunt–we desire
those apples, intrinsic to disposition
so there’s nothing ersatz about living
apple to mouth, nothing flaccid about
our utterly strange preoccupations.
It’s barely daylight here.
I opened another book of poems sounding
a clarion call. So am I talking to myself?
Each morning I reassemble the pieces.
They are porous. And iterating. Have I
come to the end? Only to repeat?
What about all the anteaters,
the armadillos, the okapis? Shall I look to
nature to instruct on the ways of creating
the strange and the beautiful?
To exorcize all disbelief?
To fall on our knees and prostrate
our souls? To work the loom?
To write yet another poem?
Another day, another poem? Today I feel rather Sisyphean about it. Is it a curse or a blessing to write? Soon enough April will dawn on us and that always brings to mind Eliot’s lines:
April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering 5
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Isn’t it easier to be forgetful? To not put in any effort or the minimal effort? Whereas spring asks that we awaken from slumber. See the parallel here?
And is that why National Poetry Writing Month falls in April? We’re seasonal creatures. Life is seasonal. We cycle back. We repeat. Write a poem that has something repetitious or seasonal about it.