A Philosophy of Writing Poems
The irony is the amount of time spent listening.
The sheer volume of news, truth and lies,
swan songs and manifestos, the walls of words,
and yes, the windows too, knowing each conversation
is a bit part, a brush stroke, and you have no idea
what the truth is or is not until
you have saturated your mind and soul with them, until
you are drunk with them, staggering from their weight,
swept up in Dorothy’s tornado, deafened by the wind of them.
It is only then, bludgeoned and almost senseless,
you can sort them out, not by facts and figures,
or even truth and lies, but to their essence,
whatever that may be, like wheat from the chaff, they fall.
You are merely the gatherer.
About this poem.
For me, poetry has always been about figuring out. And then cutting the answer down to an essence. In a way, the two are diametrically opposed. But that’s how I do it.