Mortal Poets

Which is it: you can't get started unless you're riding some current bigger than your reporting voice or the best time to write is when you don't have much to say and without plenty to say about everything you'll get better right away. Form is very often a betrayal of reality or, although we are initially drawn to poems by their passion and urgency, we are convinced by the formal means invented for their impelling motives. Every accidental crack or dent. Not just mildly disquieted but actively repelled, running for the River Styx, the doors of Hell pell mell, there must be a crack, deep and unmendable, in the poet that the poet must forever try to mend. Or not. While mortal poets imitate, immortal poets steal. That's plagiarism. Fortunately the public feels less strongly about poetry than television, communism and aging gracefully through meditation. Now I'm being silly. My silly indefatigable lusting, silly sadness, silly arguing and silly trusting. All I do not know about our nation's history, wars and what showering the people you love with love does. Ransacking apothegms, algorithms and selling the loot as memes, dissemblings. Or bearing fardels with the warrior's skull.