polishing a poem never ends
you read it for the 100th time
and find a height or a hollow,
or a lump or a rough place
as you run your mind over it.
but worst of all,
you find a jagged word,
a word that does not belong,
does not fit anymore, did it ever? *
the poem alone can cut,
bleed, insult, vomit,
but the word that is jagged
is a living nightmare.
you think of it having your dinner
driving along the road
making love to somebody.
there is no escape,
except to edit.
be thankful…
not to be published..
.
*=
...and so the down into that spiral of how did this word insinuate itself into the poem / or how did I miss it and all the other human frailties that seem to emerge when a mistake creeps up on you and you are there down at the end of an alley with a bad word and nowhere to run.. except to face it - deal with it... this may sound melodramatic and so it is... above all other things a poet's life is melodramatic.. one single little tiny word of a few letters can ruin your weekend...
.
