He rowed slowly and steadily toward where the bird was circling. He did not hurry and he kept his lines straight up and down. But he crowded the current a little so that he was still fishing correctly though faster than he would have fished if he was not trying to use the bird.
The bird went higher in the air and circled again, his wings motionless. Then he dove suddenly and the old man saw flying fish spurt out of the water and sail desperately over the surface.
Getting an idea for a poem is sort of like chasing a flying fish over the surface of the ocean. It's always just ahead, out of reach, disappearing into the sun.
I worked on a new poem today. It took me a few hours, but I got a good draft. Somehow, when I coax words onto a page in the shape of something that resembles a poem, I feel better about myself. Like I've made the world just a little bit better. Perhaps more beautiful.
Of course, that sounds more than a little . . . hubristic. There's a possibility that what I wrote today is absolute crap. But, I'm going to nurse it and see. I once took care of a gerbil that was born without eyes. His tail was bent at a 90-degree angle, as well. I fed him with an eyedropper until he got old enough to smell his food bowl and crawl to it. I called him Peewee.
I took care of him for almost six or seven months. Even with all his challenges, he somehow survived. Thrived a little. Then, one morning, when I went to check on him, I found him cold and still.
That's what it's like, bringing a new poem into the world. It starts out broken and fragile. Either it gets stronger and thrives, or it struggles for a little while and then withers, dies. I'm not quite sure which I have right now.
Saint Marty will just have to feed it for a while and see.
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