Consider The Torturous Birth Of The Poem
I want to dispel a Romantic myth,
That still echoes throughout the centuries.
I want to deconstruct the 'sovereign'
Light of genius in 'golden' moments.
I'd like to talk of blood, toil and tears,
And of troubled times, when all hope is lost.
I'd like to talk of assembling fragments,
Piece by piece, rather than 'inspiration.'
I'd like to talk of creation, in terms
Of rags, rather than sumptuous items.
The poem's hour of birth lies in darkness.
It is conceived when one's mind is brimming
With complex questions, not hackneyed answers.
It is often conceived on starless nights;
When there's not even a hint of moonlight.
Some claim to know that it is the darkness,
Just before dawn, and sweet enlightenment.
Alas, I do not share this assumption.
All I can hope for is the gradual
Comprehension of a flickering sign.