All There Is to Be Said - May 3 2022

 

All There Is to Be Said

May 3 2022

Say what you're going to say.

Say it.

Say what you said.

This, I was firmly instructed

is how one writes an essay.

But I'm a poet

and not an expert in anything;

so what could I possibly say

no one hasn't considered already?

When all I do is play with words.

Lose myself

in idle reminiscence.

Sit, gazing out the window

and write what I see.

I am an amanuensis,

taking dictation

from a voice in my head

that comes from who-knows-where;

often surprising me,

but sometimes

is recognizably mine.

No minds are changed

worlds moved.

But at the end of the day

a tangible thing remains

that makes me feel of use.

And which, at best

will actually be read;

although frankly, most likely not.

But either way, will at least be left for posterity

— however long that is —

to judge, ignore, discard.

Right now

sitting in my easy chair

I see sunshine

through the big picture window

for the first time in weeks.

Hear geese returning north,

who must be surprised

to find lakes still covered in ice

a few feet of snow.

Because this pandemic spring

is as late as anyone remembers.

And will emerge all at once,

its pent-up energy

erupting in green grass, unfolding buds

run-off rivers

basements flooding.

And in the meantime

this interminable waiting,

life on hold.

Which is really all there is to be said

and hardly worth the rigamarole.

No moral to the story

no redeeming uplift.

But perhaps a useful reference

when posterity forgets

this long hard winter

and I write complaining about the heat;

the cursed humidity,

the damned bugs

which have never been worse.

Something made me want to write those three opening lines. I guess that mysterious inner voice! Nevertheless, it is a recurring thought every time I read a poorly written article I've found hard to follow. After that, I simply riffed.

The stream of consciousness style of this poem contrasts nicely with the logical linear form of a good essay. It's not about making a point or winning an argument, or even learning anything. That's work. Rather, it's all about play. Some readers take poetry too seriously. Some writers are intimidated by it. But really, it's as simple as that: play; unstructured time; the self-indulgent presumption anyone cares about your inner life. Although there's no reason to diminish the value of play: when one singular and impenetrable consciousness experiences that rare intersection with another of some shared sensation, insight, or emotion, it is far more powerful than an exchange of mere information.

Speaking of stream of consciousness, this poem has a lot more of it than most of my writing. To explain what I mean, here's something I wrote to a friend with whom I shared the first draft.

I've been on quite the roll lately, so maybe running out of gas and need a break. That's what this poem is kind of telling me. Because as I wrote, I was never more than 1 line ahead: just enjoying the ride, while my critical mind was basically on idle. Nevertheless, I rather like how it came out. A poem about nothing! Since you seem more interested in content and not so much style or process (that's more me — taking more pleasure from the how than the what), I'm curious what you think of it.