Sometime tomorrow, less than twenty-four hours from now, I will summons together a poem representing the 365th day of this long poem-a-day episode. I remember starting in the middle of the month out of fear that the crazy idea would slip away from me if I had to sit on it and wait another half month to officially begin. I remember the sensing that the ease of those first few weeks would not last, knowing the coming desert of ideas and energy would test me. I remember think: Half a year’s good enough, isn’t it? I remember wondering if even a single poem from the entire experience would be a good poem. I remember sometime along the way losing some self-judgement and better realizing that what I considered good, and good for me, usually didn’t have to match up to anyone else’s vision. I remember hearing my own voice, clearer and clearer, losing it, then hearing it again, over and over. I remember leaning on others to get through this.
One Last Thought:
I don’t know if I’m able
to turn off this new habit.
What was once a clumsy chore
is a mostly working limb now
only I can see, reaching out
from the body,
like an alien
sensory organ only something
as alien as poetry could have
nourished from nothing:
Combining sight and smell
and a portion of spirit, empty
elements when alone, curious
and jetting out away from the self
when comingled, conjoined,
newly fabled creatures,
one hearing the other’s babble
about other worlds interpreted.
One Last Thought:
I don’t know if I’m able
to turn off this new habit.
What was once a clumsy chore
is a mostly working limb now
only I can see, reaching out
from the body,
like an alien
sensory organ only something
as alien as poetry could have
nourished from nothing:
Combining sight and smell
and a portion of spirit, empty
elements when alone, curious
and jetting out away from the self
when comingled, conjoined,
newly fabled creatures,
one hearing the other’s babble
about other worlds interpreted.