On Writing

A Death in the Birth of an Artist


Back in summer, with that illusion of promise,
We sat under the elm watching the bark die.
You flicked spiders from your dress,
I laughed at the fear as you hit my arm.
The world had not been invented yet
And we were alone.
Now: Thrust upon the terra, in shoes too small,
I sit and watch the city pulse from the balcony.
An Italian woman and a pint of red beer.
The whisky glows beneath the strobes.
She spoke of guilt and penance,
Still, she must sigh when he enters.
When February spoke I fled to Manhattan.
Her scent lingered, built a hunger:
I almost starved on 45th and 7th.
Drank away the nights in Irish Pubs,
Dancing with Portuguese waitresses,
Learning the trick from an Italian,
Digesting the loss as best I could.
I came home to nothing waiting.
The charity of my work had ceased.
I had reached Sam’s obligation much too early.
My inheritance now consists of four bare walls,
A table, a notebook, a pen, and a lifetime.
Every page has another and every notebook a friend.
“Once, if memory serves me well, my life was a banquet where
Every heart revealed itself, where every wine flowed,”
But now I see all the images and experiences
Ripe for my translating and dissection.
For now I understand solitude and sight.
My life belongs to the forsaken images and
Forgotten reverie of the dried out pens of history:
To those withering ideas born from that old obligation.