As I sit writing out on a patio,
a terrace, in the center city,
I stop and pause for a moment,
look out into the distance.
There’s a road with cars passing by.
There are people on the sidewalks.
Planes are crossing in the sky.
All is movement.
I do not at all regret being here,
learning all the while I go,
with every word I write.
But some things can only be learned
out there, by living life.
Surely my verses would not suffer
from being a little more seasoned,
a little more attuned to worldly ways
and worldly fashions, to how the world turns,
and to the people who are in it.
No, not at all.
Not just my art, but my very life.
Can I not come down from the peak,
the pinnacle, somewhat manacle,
in my art, and rejoin the world
to live; come down like Zarathustra?
Instead, I sit writing on quiet patios,
and life is passing me by.
For a few moments, I stop and look.
Maybe, when I have written enough
for one day, I will stop.
Put down my notebook and go out,
into the world, where life is lived,
and will stand there, waiting,
until life happens to me, too.
Leave a comment