Ponder this, if you will...
Why is it that a chronic depressive poet
is very much the typical poet of any note?
And does that mean that my work is of merit
eventually?
Dare I compare myself to Dylan Thomas?
He is, after all, a hero of mine.
And if ever there was a chronic depressive,
he was one.
As I am. I am so diagnosed,
and am pensioned off for it.
That being said,
might I then consider that
I have won at least half the battle?
I will never be able to emulate him,
but I can always admire him.
There are times when I am alone
in my musings,
that I believe I have words of weight,
thoughts and mental stirrings
worthy of great banners across the streets...
as are some in history.
But only those others
would be so admired at the moment.
Who am I to even hint,
to anyone other than myself,
that my thoughts, aligned in curious rows,
would gather a second glance from one
who was otherwise bored...
It is enough to dream
that somewhere in the time beyond my ken,
someone will consider the leaves
upon which I have entered my mind,
and will say that they are such that return value
for the time spent in reading.
Great praise, indeed,
and like most poets of name,
it likely will not happen in my lifetime,
but hopefully, it will happen.
Would that I could fortell
what is to come about,
and see for myself what acclaim
I might be given, if any.
For a poet writes not for greed,
but for a singular purpose
that drives him, commands him,
and he can do no less than obey
that which tells him to take up his pen.
He writes to still that voice,
and he writes to share, to entertain,
and even to educate,
if he is able,
those who will take time to read his words.
It is not the place of the poet to judge
the value of what he writes;
that is for the reader to decide.
Be it wheat or be it chaff,
only the reader will know.
The poet writes,
and each stroke of the pen
is as momentous a thing
as giving birth to something alive;
words and lines which scream out
as they are exposed fresh to the paper,
under the scrutiny of eyes looking
to see what is in them.
It is up to the reader, because
the poet knows not whether his hand
holds merely a pen,
or a golden sceptor of some magical kind,-
which will either waste the alphabet,
or bring it singing to the page.

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