This week I have written a poem each day. First, I write down what I want to say. Then I break it into lines and stanzas. I tinker with it for awhile before setting it aside. I have done this before in what seems like previous lives. The poems have always stayed in rough draft form; I never go back to them. They are mostly anecdotal too. Most contemporary poems are anecdotal. The best go beyond anecdote into poetry. I suppose that is one of things I like best about good contemporary poetry. I like having someone tell me a story well said, and with a hint of meaning, which I supply, for I don’t claim to understand the poet’s intentions.

I also walk out on my balcony during the day and look down at the construction site across the street where another high rise condo building is being built on what was the Scottish Rites parking lot. The workers are driving large cylinders into the ground. I don’t know doodly squat about construction, but I assume they are for the sewage system. Think of all the dirty dish water, bath water, piss, and shit that will drop down those pipes.

I crook my forefinger and measure the size of the workers below. When measured this way, the workers appear five eighths of an inch tall. When I pass these workers on the street, they stand sturdy and thick from a life spent constructing big buildings.

I doubt if I will draft a poem tomorrow now that I have spoken of it. Talking about my writing seems to work that way with me. As soon as I talk about it, I lose interest. It is like divulging a secret.

I have spoken of the physical substance of the construction workers. But what of their souls? We are unique, but I suspect not that far different with our hopes and fears.

Published in: on June 4, 2008 at 12:03 pm  Leave a Comment  

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