Advice From Bukowski

I remembered there was that poem of yours said- Writing should be inspired as an acorn on fresh fallen snow Left there by a sudden north breeze that sprang up At midnight, and stirred all the trees but for an instant Leaving that gift, waiting to be found at dawn; If the act doesn't resemble automatic writing Words springing up off ouija boards, flexing their new found muscles Hoisting cartons of beer, and smoking Camel's; If you must tediously move words about, with a dolly Like rearranging whatnots on an already over-waxed piano, Or even, god forbid, have to move the piano itself- Just forget it- don't give in and commit poetry. Reading Dylan Thomas' poetry, I noticed A synchronicity of alliteration, of syllables; A precociousness that could not have been First impression; it was all interwoven With embedded artistry, like a master weaver's tapestry Of which only the shop owner has the true key and code; All the workers merely imitate the patterns It seems random until you study Warp and woof, color and texture. When Dylan wrote, you could see hours of time involved Tweaking each line; poring over words As if they were faceted jewels, kept in a locked armoire, And after lighting the candles of his ritual, touching once His good luck piece, he would take out A few at a time, on black velvet pillows, Examine them with his jewelers eye-loop. Accepting or rejecting this one or that Based on number of consonants, or first or last sound made When lines were read together as a group He counted out his word's very syllables, as if counting pearls As though he cherished the being of each separately And then gave them his blessing, as a whole: Nothing was ever left to chance: His poems still fragrant incense wafting High above the flop houses of modern writing.