For All the Books I Never Finished
Why do I horde these piles of bound white leaves,
ink-stained gossamer strips of wood that are too thin to cover me,
too frail to shelter me from the wind and the rain and the heat and the unrelenting cold
of cruel, lovely mother earth––
Why do I stack these pages of Dante and Donne, Faulkner and Freud,
King and Kerouac, and Milton and Homer and a million others,
more than half I’ll never read, and far fewer than half I’ll ever understand––
Wouldn’t I be happier with piles of green leaves? Or strips of wood that blocked the merciless sun and pouring rain, that silenced the stinging howling wind of vanity that calls me a fool for considering to chase it?
Is it the ridiculous romantic notion to become the noble scholar,
the starving artist who only needs the taste of words on his lips,
who dismisses the world and its money with a fluttering of his hand and his pages?
Do I think that these new books will be any different than than the dozens of others,
countless tomes and volumes and leaves that lie in my room, discarded,
their words half-spoken and still-born in my head?
Do I think that the musty smell of ink and paper well awaken my senses,
sharpen my wits to see the poetry in the world I stumble through
lazy, blind, and thoughtless––
Will it open my eyes to creation, my ears to the music of the air and water and
and heartbeat of this city that I still know nothing about? Will it let me hear the
voice of the God I once knew or the calls of Caliope that I thought went silent?
I know that the books will do nothing themselves.
They float, anchorless, without a mind to take root and germinate in.
A story, a verse, an idea will not simply come with the morning sun––
My God did not stop speaking, nor did the muse cease singing––
I know all I need to do is to bid the noise of distraction to stop,
to quiet the grinding gears of my mind and listen if I want to hear.
These books are real, not some 3 dimensional wall-paper to adorn my house
Nor is the pile an erected monument to an intellect I want everyone think I have.
But still they lie unread and still my pen sits idle, still full of ink that now begins to dry.
Still I buy more to throw upon the pile, all the while dreaming Quixotic dreams of
the thoughts and contemplations and inspirations that prose and poesy once brought me.
But still I never turn the page nor pick up the pen,
save to sign a check for some pretty book to lie unread,
all the while filled with dread that all I’ll ever write for the world to see is that ugly, frail
little wisp of a name–– that damning, doooming admission of wasted life.
Why do I horde these piles of bound white leaves,
ink-stained gossamer strips of wood that are too thin to cover me,
too frail to shelter me from the wind and the rain and the heat and the unrelenting cold
of cruel, lovely mother earth––
Why do I stack these pages of Dante and Donne, Faulkner and Freud,
King and Kerouac, and Milton and Homer and a million others,
more than half I’ll never read, and far fewer than half I’ll ever understand––
Wouldn’t I be happier with piles of green leaves? Or strips of wood that blocked the merciless sun and pouring rain, that silenced the stinging howling wind of vanity that calls me a fool for considering to chase it?
Is it the ridiculous romantic notion to become the noble scholar,
the starving artist who only needs the taste of words on his lips,
who dismisses the world and its money with a fluttering of his hand and his pages?
Do I think that these new books will be any different than than the dozens of others,
countless tomes and volumes and leaves that lie in my room, discarded,
their words half-spoken and still-born in my head?
Do I think that the musty smell of ink and paper well awaken my senses,
sharpen my wits to see the poetry in the world I stumble through
lazy, blind, and thoughtless––
Will it open my eyes to creation, my ears to the music of the air and water and
and heartbeat of this city that I still know nothing about? Will it let me hear the
voice of the God I once knew or the calls of Caliope that I thought went silent?
I know that the books will do nothing themselves.
They float, anchorless, without a mind to take root and germinate in.
A story, a verse, an idea will not simply come with the morning sun––
My God did not stop speaking, nor did the muse cease singing––
I know all I need to do is to bid the noise of distraction to stop,
to quiet the grinding gears of my mind and listen if I want to hear.
These books are real, not some 3 dimensional wall-paper to adorn my house
Nor is the pile an erected monument to an intellect I want everyone think I have.
But still they lie unread and still my pen sits idle, still full of ink that now begins to dry.
Still I buy more to throw upon the pile, all the while dreaming Quixotic dreams of
the thoughts and contemplations and inspirations that prose and poesy once brought me.
But still I never turn the page nor pick up the pen,
save to sign a check for some pretty book to lie unread,
all the while filled with dread that all I’ll ever write for the world to see is that ugly, frail
little wisp of a name–– that damning, doooming admission of wasted life.
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