A POEM’S ONLY DEADLINE IS PERFECTION

After you start to write it,

you belong to the poem.

Your time

becomes the poem’s time,

which ranges anywhere

from now to who knows when.

You’re like a sculptor working

with mallet, wedge and file

to help the sculpture waiting

in a bulk of rock emerge.

Like something born in hiding,

a poem lets itself be found

the more you fret and work

to free it of its flaws.

Even when the poem seems complete,

you’re still not sure of a verb here,

an adjective there.

You squander

hours searching for alternatives

until they both occur to you

by chance while you’re thinking

of something else entirely.

There’s no timetable.

You pause

when the poem makes you pause.

You write when the poem makes

you write.

Precedent means nothing.

Even when you think it’s done,

it’s never done.

You tell yourself

you could have made it better,

but the time for bettering is over.

Being a poet means

you have to live with that.

Download PDF