Advice From Bukowski Poem by Patti Masterman

I remembered there was that poem of yours said-
Writing should be inspired as an acorn on fresh fallen snow
Left there by a sudden north breeze that sprang up
At midnight, and stirred all the trees but for an instant
Leaving that gift, waiting to be found at dawn;
If the act doesn't resemble automatic writing
Words springing up off ouija boards, flexing their new found muscles
Hoisting cartons of beer, and smoking Camel's;
If you must tediously move words about, with a dolly
Like rearranging whatnots on an already over-waxed piano,
Or even, god forbid, have to move the piano itself-
Just forget it- don't give in and commit poetry.

Reading Dylan Thomas' poetry, I noticed
A synchronicity of alliteration, of syllables;
A precociousness that could not have been
First impression; it was all interwoven
With embedded artistry, like a master weaver's tapestry
Of which only the shop owner has the true key and code;
All the workers merely imitate the patterns
It seems random until you study
Warp and woof, color and texture.

When Dylan wrote, you could see hours of time involved
Tweaking each line; poring over words
As if they were faceted jewels, kept in a locked armoire,
And after lighting the candles of his ritual, touching once
His good luck piece, he would take out
A few at a time, on black velvet pillows,
Examine them with his jewelers eye-loop.

Accepting or rejecting this one or that
Based on number of consonants, or first or last sound made
When lines were read together as a group
He counted out his word's very syllables, as if counting pearls
As though he cherished the being of each separately
And then gave them his blessing, as a whole:
Nothing was ever left to chance:
His poems still fragrant incense wafting
High above the flop houses of modern writing.