| Even the setting enters the tradition: |
| the open window, the rooftops, the trees, |
| the soiled stream a little beyond, |
| the half completed concert hall; |
| also language and its variables, |
| time in which to note |
| Infinity can begin anywhere. |
| I scribble lines which might follow this |
| but nothing yields. The day is vivid, |
| self-contained, and is the gift. |
| The poem is in the day not on the page. |
|
| * |
|
| Even so, compose the poem. |
| Cite the day, the water, the trees, |
| intimate infinity's presence. |
| Begin with a verb. Enter the tradition. |
| Your setting is your viewpoint of the world |
| in which resides |
| the components which construct the whole. |
| What you now write will demonstrate |
| perspective and appraisal, |
| will demonstrate the art you've set yourself to. |
| |
| * |
| |
| The intention of which is what? |
| Peace? Partial success at art's demands? |
| Or a piece outlasting the moment's constraints? |
| Something of which you can later say |
| At least that line was true, |
| a pride in the work as if it were not you own |
| as the reader recognise the aims |
| planted in the core of what you've said, |
| something accessible, provoking response, |
| even if the poem is in the day not on the page; |
| something which says Here, here is the tradition |
| added to and enlightened in a way which |
| without this poem it would not be. |
|
| * |
| |
| (The implications are endless. The ramifications |
| are echoes you listen to and follow till they stop |
| in a silence which is their core. |
| You have arrived. You are there. The poem |
| is truly in the day not on the page.) |
|
| * |
|
| Begin with a verb. Move beyond the page. |
| In your view-point resided your witness |
| of the world and word. |