The Middlewesterner

“How far
before

no more?”

“With enough
face paint, we'd

be clowns. As
it is, we're

only poets.”

“If I could
sing, I would -

a rude tune
made of words

like bitter
drink, of dreams

like wind, of
love like unction.”

“If you could
talk your way
to silence,

that would be
the poem.”

“Sometimes
so full of
nothing

I am
as wind.”

“The poem,
like an under-
done onion,

still has
some bite.”

Like an unwashed
dish,” he said,

“leave it there,
the poem, half-

finished. There's
no undoing

what's not been done.”

“You cannot
abandon
what you've

been,” he said.
“Everything
behind you

rolls ahead.”

“If you are writing,”
he said, “do not

complain that you
are not writing

what you want.”

“When the poem
takes you,” he said,

“there is no
pushing back.”

“We call this
wisdom,” he said,

“these words,
this water

down the mountain.”

“If you're in such
an all-fired hurry,”
he said, “don't walk

with the turtle, don't
work with a poet.”

“If you want the poems
to come to you,”

he said, “why do you
argue with them?”

“If you find
nothing there,”

he said, “that's
an omen too.”

“Do they come
when you call them?”

they asked. “No,”
he said, “ you must

wait with open heart.”

“When can you
trust a poem?”
they asked.

“Always,”
he said.

“How do you know
it's any good?”

they wondered.
“Listen,” he said.

“It will tell you.
Listen a lot. This

is the beginning
of wisdom.”

“They are
whispered

secrets,
these poems,”

he said,
“quiet

as ice.”

“No, no, not words,”
he said. “A poem

is a machine
made of what you've

been and seen.”

“Lay open my heart
with a razor,” he said.

“There's your god-damn poem.”

“Loneliness
and silence,

all the rich
emptiness.”

“You must wrestle
them all,” he said,

“to find which
belong to you.”