, , ,

When someday I meet my lovers-

Pushkin, Rumi, Blake, Hopkins, Coleridge,

David and the bards-

to whom I’ve born each a son,

A few lines long,

just a few words thick,

Will they be happy to see the little miscreant?

And had we been properly yoked in wedlock,

Would he have been so manly-

So wild and brave,

Daring to come to this world?

Are you only fruitful

Because you rebel?

If I lived in peace,

Would I lose my meter,

Would I lose my ear for harmony?

If my heart was quiet,

If my soul rested,

If finally even mind was content-

Would I be dead,
or just a bad po-et?

I want to keep singing,

but I must let the struggle go.