So far, it seems, I am only making the poem.
At first one attempts to set the right tone,
to foot the pedals for an appropriate drone.
So far I, and I only, am making the poem.
It appears I’ve quite established my throne!
Someday others may join me who’ll make it their home,
though I must say I’d rather be here all alone.
So far I am only making the poem.
It’s a quarry, a quandary of bone, sheer bone –
altogether more puzzling than canvas or stone.
So far I am only making the poem.
You’ll suggest I should have it exhibited, shown,
held up as a model of the low or high-flown,
taken in, gussied up, brought out, made known.
But as for now I am only making the poem.
[Previous: Blooming and Withering]
[Next: A Lehúsa Be (A Page from the Library of Borges)]