 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
I admit that I am powerless over poetry.
When I’m away from the computer
I obsess over that feeling I get
when my fingers align with the keys
and the white page pops up
and I inhale a verse and hold it in
as long as I can and then exhale
a title and an opening phrase.
But that’s never enough. So I mix
my metaphors and prep my pencils. I tie-off
my stanzas with rhymes and inject
iambs directly into the lines. After that
it’s just a blur. At some point
(usually 8 to 10 pages in) I puke
all the words onto printer paper.
At the end of one of these sessions
which often last several days
I collapse onto my bed and shut down
the computer. I have absolutely
nothing to say for 24 hours. The clouds
spread over the city like white-space.
This long withdrawal is marked-up
with regrets and all I think about
is that next revision. I feel so pathetic
admitting this, but I am truly powerless
over poetry. I lost everything. I edited out
those who loved me most. All I have left
are these black parallel lines. Save me,
Lord, for I have deleted my life.
- d.c. porder
