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Chapter Ixv
I had an epiphany
While reading Spring and All.
Why do I make poetry?
Is it a certain call?
A call from my mind that needs release?
A call to improve a skill?
A call to write one good entry
To be famous in the next century?
To have students analyse and criticise
The backbone of my mind
that I could never write into short stories.
I contemplated the pleasure of the hand or the pen.
The latter was chosen
Socrates would be elated.
A question came to me
One I would ask William Carlos William.
Art holds imagination in captivity?
Imagination doesn't captain the ship of art?
Is art rather full of imagination that it can never escape it?
Would Duchamp agree
Or is this what he means?
Let art not be creative for once but confusing
but plain
but unimaginative
but charmless
(Is this why Williams always rambles about plagiarism?)
So many questions left unanswered
for the dead I mentioned.
They will stay hidden in this book
On this page
and washed out of my dirty hair
Down the drain
Into the sewers
and possibly out into the sea
or Wherever the drain leads.
Copyright ©
Nicole Seefeld
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