The Plight of the Poet (poem)

(by Daniel R. Jones)

There you are, camera in hand
at the rim of the Grand Canyon
or else overlooking the Niagara
or even craning your neck
at the domed head of the Taj Mahal.

Before you snap
the photo, you hesitate.

Gorgeous, though it is,
you know the camera
can’t capture it.
The sublimity
won’t translate
to a 1×1 inch
viewfinder.

This is the plight of the poet, friend.
This is my dilemma, even now, as I sit,
having felt something so profound,
but afraid I’ll trivialize it
if I dare to immortalize it
on this blank, ivory page.

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On Writing (Pensée)

There have been years I tilled the soil of my mind,
weeding out the passe, banal thoughts before I sowed a single seed.
I meticulously cultivated the plot of land that is the page. 

Those years yielded a handful of well-constructed, satisfactory poems.

There have been years I doused the sidewalk of my brain with herbicides
and all manner of thoughts not fit for human consumption.
Entire months passed when I neglected to set aside any time
for watering, composting, or gardening.
I didn’t expect a single fruitful thought. 

Still, a handful of poems poked their way up through the cracks,
identical in quality to the others.

Maybe I have less to do with this than I thought.

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