[LIKE A DIAMOND TRAPPED IN LODE...]

Yeah, so on World Poetry Day, nearly a month ago,  (March 21, to be exact) I posted a link to my favorite poem about being a poet, Constantly Risking Absurdity by Lawrence Ferlinghetti. I also promised to post one of my own poems, an exercise from my UB days where we were supposed to imitate a poem by a Master we liked. It seemed like the natural thing to do considering that my poem was directly inspired by Ferlinghetti's, except for one little thing: I couldn't find it.

It then became perfectly apparent that the time had finally come to stop putting it off. The time had come to A): Help Val free our basement from being held hostage by years of stuff long abandoned by ex-roommates/boarders/squatters, etc. that kept perfectly usable space looking like a bad episode of Hoarders; and B): find all my writing and organize it well enough so that I can easily access it and, eventually, transfer it all into electronic form so that I might one day become... wait for it... PAPER FREE!!!

Plus, in my attempt to be a more organized, effective writer I've put together (with Val's help—she's the closest I have to a personal assistant!) a spreadsheet with contests, grants, etc., etc.—you know, all that stuff I should be submitting for if I want my writing to start making me money. Submitting enough poetry for a manuscript was just something I've never been organized enough to do, until now.

Anyhow, now that I finally know where everything is, generally, you may not have to wait three weeks before I post an old poem I promise you. Hurrah!?

Yeah, okay... Without further ado, here's the poem I wish I'd found back then. The formatting's WAY off. Thanks Blogger! I would say better late than never, but I'm not sure it's even that good. Hey, at least it's still in time for National Poetry Month, right?

[LIKE A DIAMOND TRAPPED IN LODE...]
After Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s [CONSTANTLY RISKING ABSURDITY]

Like a diamond trapped in lode
the poem resides
deep within
the mountain of our hearts

Always mining
we poets are compelled
to dig them out
lest they erupt:
the grieving
for a mother’s death
the tasting
of a lover’s breath

& perpetually we polish them

until

from raw emotion
we are left
with nothing
but the gem
we cannot keep
but feel compelled to give
to the first person
willing & able

to take it

up
&
away