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Wednesday, August 1, 2012

Into The Void

Today, feeling sorry for myself, I wrote this poem, which I dedicate to my erstwhile email correspondent Hank Lazer, with whom I have exchanged a few sporadic emails.

Into the Void

Harder still
Is writing
Into a void

To receive
No response
At all
To email
Or query
Words appear
Even smaller than
They ordinarily 
Seem to be

Happy the tree
When it falls
In the forest alone
As it comes to rest
It makes a perfect home
For countless
Termites and scarabs too

I only wish it were true
That some of my poems
Could be likewise consumed

* * * * * * * * *

Ps:  On a happier note, sort of, Hank replied when I sent him a link to this poem.  I hope he doesn't mind if I share some of what he wrote with you: 

For nearly all poets, that ongoing sense of futility, of the void, of who cares – is an ongoing difficulty.  Also a blessing; perhaps, otherwise we would not face so precisely the need to do what we are doing for its own sake…

 To which I might further add - better get ready for me termites.

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