Writer's Digest

I am a poet.
Such is my resolution,
My hope,
Or maybe destiny.
I write to pass the word.
I catch the slogans that fall from billboards.
The wine of language is a sour cup
And, when we drink the medium dry,
What speech remains but advertising,
Little breaks in the winds of change,
Testimony to our monumental creed.

If I am a poet,
I am one of many
Wasting words with every uncharted thought.
In my study,
In my throne room,
I strain away, cathartic,
Reading toiletries for inspiration
In the shackles of perforated paper chains
In an autumn of Izal leaves.

Inspiration and evacuation,
Body and mind,
Consign their innermost to the outside world.
Paper serves to hold it all,
Some to read, some to flush away.
And I never know which is best discarded
And which retained to serve posterity.

 © BH 1982

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I had a discussion on how life intrudes on the writer - life: work, family and stuff. I remembered the secret places where writing occurred. This, I explained, derives from such a secret place. 

I rested my case.