for Thomas Blackburn
My mind has gone adrift with musing on
The vagaries of thought that shape a verse;
Whatever pass of pate it takes to spawn
A line that rhymes entails as well a curse.
Meandering so long in fields of sound
And fleeting images to find what fits,
I rack my memory until I’ve found
Apt words, yet at what cost to my poor wits?
The focus and the memory it takes
To carry on a rational discourse
I’ve jettisoned to find whatever makes
My rhyme and meter meet—a sad divorce.
An ancient curse I heard may well apply:
A masterpiece will cost the poet’s eye.