Poem: “Write the Poem,” Part I
When the ground quakes, what can we do but stand?
When the table shakes, what can we do but write the poem?
When the world breaks, what can we do but march in time to the unheard tune, even to the edge of doom?
To relent is to let the quaking go unchallenged before the grave gods of Valhalla.
A poet’s vow is to write on.
Unrestrained art-making is the quintessential mode of resistance to tyrannies of every stripe.
Why else would the monarchs of this earth, with dripping jowls and knives of stone, come first for the scribblers, the dancers, the fools?
Write the Poem, Part I
Write the poem of your halting life.
It needn’t rhyme.
Source your ink from
poisoned seas,
or let it be Joseph
crying up from the pit.
Write it foul among lepers
or with golden stylus held just so —
only never by dictation,
commission no ghost.
You, by your hand,
must add your entry
to the registry
of this strange inn.
Go to blank places and begin,
likewise the silent hour,
the forgotten church in winter’s night,
and sing the hymn of your stuttering god.
It needn’t lilt or swing.
One quill of an incalculable number
scrawls its tiny line
into a masterwork of unimaginable scope;
whirls, trembles, breaks;
against all sense returns
to subtly improve
one passage
of one column
of the Great Parchment.
Secrets whispered on a rainy street,
the witchcraft of a kiss
under yellow lamps,
springtime
in the rain—
all ripped away in one turning
of the dread wheel;
and yet Li Po returns,
bruised and drunk, but willing
to write the poem.