Lucía M. Polis The Poetry of

This poem appears in The Love of a Good Man.

none of the words, you know, matter; after a time, it's not that hard to tell if you're truly on course or
on some vanity trip: it's the sweat, sleepless nights, the dumb
labour of it, not: how much can be said, how much has
already been said, and why?
other writers' words feed my very soul; no wonder, then, that mine should be
special!
all of my words . . . how could they create
laughter through the flame?
they are merely fuel; they burn
and keep me warm

the same poets reading over and
over again in the same venues; I am enamoured with them a bit more each time and with
myself:
how could we really think that we are fashioning speech more unusual than a stock market or weather
report?
when our speech itself is the stock market
when our speech itself is the weather

none of the words—we type away—on and on—most of us living lives
ordinary but with great courage—are we sick to think that our
speech is
unexceptional?

I don't like you but I once did—is there anything worse
than a creature who lives never to write
poetry?