The poem
In the same way that the mindless diamond keeps one spark of the planet's early fires trapped forever in its net of ice, it's not love's later heat that poetry holds, but the atom of the love that drew it forth from the silence: so if the bright coal of his love begins to smoulder, the poet hears his voice suddenly forced, like a bar-room singer's -- boastful with his own huge feeling, or drowned by violins; but if it yields a steadier light, he knows the pure verse, when it finally comes, will sound like a mountain spring, anonymous and serene.
Beneath the blue oblivious sky, the water sings of nothing, not your name, not mine.
poetry about poetry..clever lad--Tell me..how soon do you write the poem..right after you pull the plastic bag off your head or later ?
Must concur with Mr. Bones--excellent evocation of
onanistic activity -- Paterson's metaphor for the act of writing poetry.Oh well...perhaps the music thing will work out.