A Man Remembers His Buried Poems

What traps me in the net of my own words? What am I thinking when a single word fills my brain with its sway of meanings, its catch of rhythms, its bite and swallow? Why does a poem I begin with AS IF take hold of my mind for hours, even in my sleep? Why indeed does ending a poem with an elipsis pause further thought in the time remaining? Four questions occupy my mind. Each one settles into a comfortable cranial niche to drift and drowse. Meanwhile I will assume the role of a bon vivant, slipping from topic to topic the way a master baroque harpsichord player veers from dance suites to opera suites or improvises on themes of love and passion. Like the poet, she modulates her sound for sweetness or harshness, truth being her guide. But now I wholly doubt myself, and wonder whether my poems should be housed in an archive of forgotten things. Perhaps my best gambit is to maintain an external silence, so the inner sounds can be heard more clearly, despite the static of self-talk. Within my soul I must purge the interplay of silence and speech. I realize the bon vivant has withdrawn, and the new resident in my mind doffs his hat. He is a comedian, not very deft at his trade, perhaps with a touch of Touchstone, and a meager portion of Feste, but he will suffice to distract me from composing further poems. I may yet be saved by such wise foolery Shakespeare released from within his clowns! And I will apply myself to sympathetic listening for the slightest sign of what must come to pass. Perhaps even now, this moment between here and there, the depths are opening to welcome my New Self.