"I Kept A Journal For Years... " Poem by Daniel Brick

A Cycle of Poems

Memories by Walt Whitman
How sweet the silent backward tracings!
The wanderings as in dreams - the meditation of old times
resumed - their loves, joys, persons, voyages.

(1)
I kept a journal for years
in the top drawer of my desk.
The desk had been hand-made in another country,
made of seasoned-wood by a seasoned craftsman.
The drawers originally had bronze knobs, but they
were replaced with ivory ones. I don't know why:
I prefer bronze knobs. Why does this bother me?
I especially like the table top, its size is awesome.
There's room for a pile of books in each side.
On the left are references books, including
two dictionaries each housing 96,000 words.
I love words with passion. On the right are
are poetry volumes, including THE ANNOTATED TEXT:
THE POEMS OF T. S. ELIOT. That book anchors
Memory for me, and memories cluster,
because of it, true, lasting, pregnant memories.
This desk is entirely mine, only my stuff
is stuffed in it, only my fingerprints lay claim
to it. Only I know its ultimate value. When I open
the top drawer, there lies the journal and no other
object, not even a pen. Its embossed soft leather cover,
its pages lined with gold leaf, its lock and key,
its pristine condition, its unmarked interior:
all these things are vital facts about the journal
I kept for many years in its lonely top drawer.

(2)
I kept a journal for years,
and through its steady use
I learned the craft of writing.
I am very fond of writing entries
in the morning, the earlier
the better, before breakfast weighs
on me and showering clears away remains
of the Night. I stare at the next
blank page and let it stare back at me.
Then I begin writing in my deliberate
script, slowly, neatly, proudly.
Someone once said, You have to go
after Inspiration with an ax.
Kafka, I think. It's no wonder that
blood seeps out of copies of his
COLLECTED STORIES, even the new edition
translated by Breon Mitchell, and
and his novels require expensive
blood transfusions, despite standing
idle on book shelves. Kafka is, you
will agree, the non pareil of committed
writers. If for you, like me, he is your
model and master, you write and you
bleed. Then you write more and bleed again.
It's no secret among writers that
contemporary writing is a "blood sport."
It's not a question of loss, it's an issue
of gain. And if this makes you squeamish,
if you cannot face it, then put down
your pen and close and lock your journal.