It must pay to write
For some reason
About which I’m not entirely clear
If not for the income
I ask myself over
And over again
Why keep banging it out
Whether long form or short
These poems that no one
Cares to buy
Much less read
And then
As I was thinking this
And waiting
In line for
My chicken sandwich
I noticed this handsome
Couple sitting at a counter
Nearby and the man was
Reading Why I Write
By the late great
George Orwell
And it’s quite
Remarkable
Don’t you think
Or so it seems
To me
The QED of
Synchronicity
We encounter
Every day in
These midtown streets
And the answers
Happenstance
Chooses to provide
And it turns out
The only reason to write
As I learned from Akhil
Who learned it directly
From George himself
Is so that other people
May learn
Which is pure poetry
My friends
The way it comes
At you so unexpectedly
Sitting at Fresh or Pret
With a cup of coffee and
Sandwich in hand
So now I know
Why I write
The dharma of it
Right here and now
Right here and now
And for the next
Nine days at least
An answer
Has been given
And received
So lovely, so simple in the complexity of feelings about,why,we write. I agree with George. And I write to feel, to live, to stay alive.
ReplyDeleteSo lovely, so simple in the complexity of feelings about,why,we write. I agree with George. And I write to feel, to live, to stay alive.
ReplyDelete