Why I Write, Revisited

I was under a spell, and wanted
to be. It catapulted me to
the wonders of the world,
and so we wandered through
statues, gardens, the
coloration of trees.

Why not choose lyricism for
a journey? Though it be called
farce, or even philosophy,
it’s a quest close to heart–
I’d become my own Don Quixote.
Preposterous I know.

Through poems I’d grown,
paid homage to our collective
souls and my own. O the incense!
And here I am marooned
nonetheless. But I love
being here with you.


I know I’d asked for a writing poem. You know, a poem about writing. (Oh I see poems in a bucket, so this is real.) Often it’s language that’s steering us. It shapes a world view. There’re so many competing world views. And yet we own only our own. And believe it to be the true one. What’s your prevailing world view, that’s what I’m asking now, and relate it to writing if possible. Surely when we see the creatures in the world, and how amazing each is (for instance, think of a kangaroo, whose world view must surely rests on those powerful legs), and how different (contrast it with a snail who has a large and very flat foot), wouldn’t you begin to see how just writing names something for us? But do things exist because we speak of them? Of course not. Ultimately everything in the physical world is outside language, is “silent”. The poetic realm tries to address this “silence” too.


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