Oct 22 2007
I have always written poetry. My mind works in metaphors; verbal, visual, musical, kinesthesial, philosophical, claustrophobial, sexual, clingual, existential, spacial, gardenmental, amorially, and in many other ways not yet articulated.
I offer here an early sentiment, which is what most of my poems are…sentiments.
November 11, 1967
I want to be a poet.
I say, “Please let me be a poet.”
Not just a fumbling, fashionable poet,
But a strong and sensitive one. Please,
Let my words pour forth thoughtfully
Rather than swiftly.
How can I be a poet?
I feel so inferior and inadequate at times.
As some say it, “He has a lack of articulation,” or
“He does not use words well.”
I want more than all of everything
To use words well—to be a worker of words
For an intentional emotional end,
Part propagandist, but mostly
And first of all, “Poet.”
Ah…a good question,
“What is a poet?” I hardly
Know but am willing to find out.
Fail, fall, but to have tried…
That’s what I am doing now…
December 13, 1967
Complacent in their seats
Of omnipotent misanthropy
Seems like no security